


Of Harpsichord and Falsetto

by saretton



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Classical Music, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Music, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Anxiety Attacks, Based on a Tumblr Post, Bullying, Classical Music, Crying, Distress with a Happy ending, Dramatic reveal of Crowley's eyes, Drinking to Cope, Falling In Love, Friends to Lovers, Glam Rock, Homophobia, Ineffable Musicians AU, M/M, Mentions of Cancer, Minor Character Death, Musicians, Mutual Pining, Original Character Death(s), Original Character(s), Rating May Change, She/Her Pronouns for Beelzebub (Good Omens), Slow Burn, Tags updated with each chapter, Trauma, aziraphale is a virtuoso pianist, crowley is a rock guitarist
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-07
Updated: 2020-05-20
Packaged: 2020-11-26 23:28:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 59,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20938547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saretton/pseuds/saretton
Summary: "And that was the magic of it all: Aziraphale was at such a level in his mastery that he could tidy up all that apparent chaos. He made it seem so easy, so effortless, even though Crowley knew that, behind that polished façade, there were years of study, practice and daily sacrifices.In the days when they both attended the music school, Crowley used to sit outside the rehearsal classroom to listen to Albert as he practiced playing the piano almost every afternoon. Sometimes Crowley would even ditch other classes to do that."





	1. One Way Ticket to Hell

"I don't care what you think, you loser. In this band, we do it my way. I'm the frontman, Crowley, so you and your classical drag can suck it up."

That was it. Three short sentences, one after the other, and the dam broke. This time it was over. Like, really over. And might the whole world be damned if Anthony Crowley hadn't thought about it a lot before deciding to quit.

He blinked once before answering Lucifer, his unperturbed amber eyes hidden behind his sunglasses. "If that's the case, guys, fine. As I promised, I won't go back on my word. I quit. It's been a pleasure working with you. Or maybe not. At least... not lately. Good luck with finding another guitarist and back vocalist who can hit those high notes like _I_ do."

He put his red and black electric guitar back in her case very carefully, paying attention not to scratch the snake-shaped headstock. He had always dreamt of getting to the point of having to do a dramatic exit in his life, one day. He just didn’t know when. Now that he had found his chance, he had no intention whatsoever of wasting it.

He was actually enjoying himself like ever, being a drama queen. At the moment, though, he was facing an even bigger drama queen than him, one who was slightly prone to the use of mild violence when he got _really_ angry. From the outside, that showdown between the two of them probably looked like watching a fight of a mongoose and a snake.

"Yeah, go to hell, you fucker!" Lucifer barked at him, while the rest of the band, the Cast Out Children, watched the whole scene in silence. Typical of the minions of that big blond bully. They had always been too scared of Lucifer not to do exactly what he said every time. The times in which they had tried to speak their own minds had resulted in unbridled chaos. Every single one of them was very stubborn and lately they had come to the point in which they couldn’t even agree on which songs to rehearse, thus leaving Lucifer and his iron fist with full power to decide.

Dagon, the keyboardist, was the only one who, from time to time, had sided with Crowley, but she had probably never seen Lucifer so mad before. She was just standing there, gaping like a trout at the fish market as she witnessed Crowley's dramatic exit with the other members of the Children.

"I've had enough of this drama", Crowley said very calmly, not giving a fried fig about the fact that he, too, was being dramatic. "You want to pull some rock-pop shit out of your sorry asses like everyone else, writing repetitive lyrics without an ounce of poetry or imagination? Fine. Want to cut all the falsetto and pseudo-classical parts that I'd tried to insert in the process? Fine. Want to complain and whine all day long that local reviews are not remotely as good as they used to be when we started? Be my guests, I'll provide handkerchiefs for you all. But you can’t drag me down with you in your suicidal devolution."

"We _do_ need a guitarist, though", Hastur grumbled. The bitch. As if he really cared. As long as he could vent his frustration on the drums, he was ok. He was saying that only because he wanted to have a band to play the drums with. Given his shitty personality, the Cast Out Children were the only ones who managed to tolerate him.

Seriously, though, what was tying Crowley down? Why would he want to stay in a band with zero vision? With absolutely no desire to stand out, no whim to be noticed for something innovative, to explore and go new lengths? Fuck that and fuck them too.

"Sorry, my friend", (even though Hastur had never been Crowley’s friend, not even in the early golden days of the band), "that's _your_ problem now."

He flipped a lock of his auburn hair behind his shoulder with one swift movement of the hand, his short nails covered in jet-black polish shining eerily under the neon lights, making a pleasurable contrast with his faux gold bangles on his left wrist. Boy, oh boy, was he having _fun_. He felt powerful over them, at last. He felt heard, listened to, and he wanted to enjoy this moment to the fullest. "So long, suckers. Don't come crying when people say you'll be even more pathetic than you are now. Ciao."

He picked up his guitar case and stormed out of the rehearsing studio before anyone else could find the words to answer him.

He climbed the stairs up to the surface, back to the street and to the world outside which, luckily, included no damned band in it. He could still hear Lucifer cursing him. Crowley imagined he’d found the words to shout at him with some delay and that he was almost having a fit. His red enraged face was still before Crowley’s eyes.

Of course Lucifer had to be the frontman of the band. He was the beautiful one: blond, proportioned, icy blue eyes, Greek profile, all that... He had developed such a hellish temper over the years, though. It was a pity. Had his personality been kind, had his heart stayed pure and less egoistical, everybody would have loved him. Adored him, even. Instead, Lucifer had chosen to rule over them employing fear, perhaps feeling that it would be easier for him in the long run. Crowley sighed.

In the early and slightly chilly gloom of that mid-September afternoon, now that it was finally over (what a relief), Crowley walked to the bus stop nearby with wings at his feet. The breakup was already putting some distance between him and the state of the band, allowing him to think about it with more insight and tranquillity.

In retrospect, he was surprised he'd lasted this long with the Cast Out Children. It had been cool, at the beginning. They liked Crowley's vision and they were adopting it as a band. Lucifer, who was a charming and charismatic leader back then, actually listened to Crowley's advice. Crowley had even succeeded in convincing and accustoming Lucifer to call some of the band members by surname (Crowley included) simply because they preferred it over their first name. As a band, they'd been very young, they'd had a fresh approach and that had resulted in more gigs, even though Crowley was the only one among them with some talent and who had actually studied some music theory. More importantly, they used to have fun. Lately, though, there had been nothing but fighting and arguing like bratty kids.

He could still have kept some influence on the others, if it hadn't been for Beelzebub, Lucifer's ice-cold girlfriend as well as the band’s bassist. She wasn’t what you’d call a conventional beauty, but she surely was fascinating in her own special way. She was quiet and self-controlled in a proud and detached way, resulting in a domineering figure; a lady in spirit, but not in the looks. Strangely enough, she also agreed with her boyfriend all the time, backing him up and strengthening his position as leader.

It hadn’t always been like that between Lucifer and Beelzebub. Everyone remembered when the two of them had had a big fight that had threatened to split the band in half: Beelzebub, Crowley and Dagon on one side, Lucifer, Hastur and Ligur on the other. The reason of their fight had never been clear, so the whole business was pretty much confusing to that day.

Surprisingly, given the magnitude of the fight, they had come back together only a week later. Crowley could swear that it had been the only time he overheard Lucifer begging someone for forgiveness; and that 'someone', of course, was Beelzebub. Eventually, the frontman had fallen, and Beelzebub had risen as official and permanent second-in-command in the band. Somehow, the Children noticed that she had begun to have Lucifer secretly under her thumb in their private relationship, while supporting his decisions about the band in public.

That was the last time they had been seen fighting. After then, Beelzebub had done nothing but employ her position of power to strengthen Lucifer's dictatorship over the other Cast Out Children. Every time, Crowley wondered what Beelzebub could possibly get from her relationship with Lucifer in return of that unconditional support. He’d come to figure out that it had to be quite a lot. In short, Beelzebub was not a girl to be toyed with. On the contrary, she was powerful. She didn’t talk much but, if she wanted something, she would use all of her icy charisma to have it.

That said, had the band actually broken up at the time of their fight, Crowley and the girls could have still made something out of it. Guitar, bass and keyboard – they could still have worked it out. Moreover, Crowley could sing, and in falsetto, too.

Those other three patented morons, by contrast... A grumpy drummer, a frontman who was mainly a screamer rather than a singer and... Ligur, whatever the hell he was doing all the time among them with his sax. (Had he ever actually _played_ that sax in any of their songs? What the devil was Ligur doing there? Oh, Jesus Christ. That band _was_ a mess.)

There was no cohesion among them, no common vision, no purpose anymore for Crowley in staying there with them. Over time, they had come to have no agent, no gigs, and they kept fighting in a childish and petty way every time they were meant to rehearse. It was pointless. Crowley felt a fit of maniacal laughter climbing up his throat at the thought he'd been in that band in the first place, but all that came out of him was a scoffing snort.

Enough. He needed to move on, so he moved on.

\-------------------------------

Before going home, Crowley got on the bus to get to his favourite ticket booth in London. He hadn’t seen the new leg of the Cherub’s tour yet; the pianist had finally come back in town for the final performances and probably most of the tickets were already sold out by then. However, Crowley knew that _those_ sellers would keep a ticket for him, especially if Anathema was at the booth. They all knew him and his tastes; he was a regular and they treated him with a special consideration.

As expected, he managed to purchase a miraculously free seat for one of those shows. Holding the ticket in his hands, he felt relieved and delighted, joy cascading over him like a child on Christmas day. Anathema had kept a seat in the stalls for him. Not too forward, but also not too far from the stage, just like he always wanted it. It was for the very last show of the Cherub’s UK tour and this only made it more valuable.

He was looking forward to it already. After months, he would have heard that fantastic pianist play again. Listening to his perfect rendition of classical pieces, Crowley would have drawn a little more of the inspiration he needed to hone his own skills as a musician and to go on writing his composition.

The whole experience, which he was already looking forward to with unadulterated excitement, would have been the perfect distraction after that day. Truth be told, the Cherub was always the perfect distraction _and _the perfect inspiration for him at the same time. He had always been since Crowley saw him for the first time at that blasted music school.

The Cherub’s true name was Albert Zachary Fell, later shortened and rewritten in the form of his stage name “Aziraphale”. He was fondly nicknamed “the Cherub” by the critics and hardcore fans (Crowley was among them) because, undeniably, he looked like a legitimate angel. Hair so fair that was almost white, rosy cheeks, a pleasantly soft body that gave him a reassuring, sweet and comfortable appearance, big blue eyes that could rival with Paul Newman’s of Frank Sinatra’s. (Crowley had spent way too much time looking at official, professional portraits of Aziraphale. In his opinion, those eyes also had something of Elizabeth Taylor’s or Marilyn Monroe’s hypnotic colours).

Back then, at school, he’d seen the way Aziraphale played. It was as if he'd been born with his hands on the keyboard and his feet on the pedals. Determined, talented, methodical. A platinum-haired angel with devilishly swift fingers. As time went by, day by day, he’d become more and more skilled in very technical and complex pieces; basically, now the critics qualified him as an extremely technical virtuoso. His style was composed, formal, tidy and he played without a smudge; yet, he was still mesmerizing and magical to watch and to listen to. No wonder that he had managed to make classical music come back in fashion.

Out of curiosity, Crowley had bought and read some of the music sheets of the pieces the Cherub played during his sold-out concerts. He’d almost had a fit. The rhythm and the writing itself were claustrophobic when visualized on paper, notes cluttered and piled up one on the others, a worrying and confusing amount of sharps and flats paired with a crazy tempo which always wanted to run faster than the pianist, leaving the poor soul behind.

And that was the magic of it all: Aziraphale was at such a level in his mastery that he could tidy up all that apparent chaos. He made it seem so easy, so effortless, even though Crowley knew that, behind that polished façade, there were years of study, practice and daily sacrifices.

In the days when they both attended the music school, Crowley used to sit outside the rehearsal classroom to listen to Albert as he practiced playing the piano almost every afternoon. Sometimes Crowley would even ditch other classes to do that.

Crowley had always wanted to become a rock guitarist; however, he’d always had a specific style in mind. Since his childhood, long before he knew of Albert-Aziraphale-the Cherub’s existence, Freddie Mercury and Queen had been demigods to him. They were untouchable. He would listen to their songs and marvel at the harmonies, the complexity of the melodies, the unbelievable skill in each of their works and the perfect communion of rock, opera and classical influences. Therefore, from a tender age, without knowing a single thing about music theory or composition yet, he had decided that his life goal would have been precisely that of composing music that mixed classical and rock in perfect harmony. He’d toyed with the idea for some years and, when he listened to the way Albert played, he decided that his piece would have been for grand piano and electric guitar.

Later, when Crowley got kicked out of the music school after a year and a half of chaotic attendance and rule breaking, he tried to keep track of that quiet boy who used to practice during the afternoon. Crowley knew he had talent and he believed that Albert would go far. And predictably, after some years, he read on specialized magazines that a certain Albert Z. Fell had won first price in this and that competitions, that he was starting to star in charity concerts, that he was planning his first UK tour, that he’d adopted the stage name Aziraphale. A rising star.

By then, Crowley had been a member of the Cast Out Children for some time; reading of Aziraphale’s accomplishments did nothing but rekindle the flame driving him to chase his long-cherished dream. Listening to the Cherub’s playing style and analyzing the pieces he played, Crowley studied music theory and composition by himself. He became a true fan, starting to go to his concerts, tracking his career and his progress closely.

It would have been much, much easier if only he’d actually _talked_ to Albert when they still were both at school. Instead, he’d been a kind of secret admirer, listening from a hidden place (which, actually, most of the time involved just sitting down on the cold parquet of the hallway, his back leaning against the door of the rehearsal classroom).

He didn’t like most of the posh kids who studied there with him and he made no effort to hide it. With Albert, though, it was different. He seemed a sweet boy; he’d never heard him talk too loud, never heard him complain, and he knew for a fact that he was always polite.

Actually, Aziraphale looked like the kind of person who didn’t talk much in the first place. Maybe he was an introvert. One of the Cherub’s trademarks had always been the gentle smile on his lips, sweet as a plum; however, after watching interviews and looking at official portraits again and again, Crowley had come to realize that his eyes rarely smiled. This thought would always sting him a bit. He’d never spotted that inexplicable gloom behind Albert’s eyes, watching him from afar at school for a year and a half. Something had changed over time.

Crowley sighed. He would had given away his plectra collection just to know _what_ could have changed behind those eyes. Lately, he’d heard that Aziraphale had been indisposed and had had to cancel some dates of that very tour in other cities. Reading the news, Crowley had felt sorry for him and, in his mind, he'd silently wished Aziraphale a quick and full recovery. He couldn’t do much else because, as far as he knew, the Cherub had always stayed away from social media.

The concert was still a couple of weeks away and, now that he was through with the Cast Out Children, Crowley had to figure out what to do in the meantime. It was possible that hard times were coming for him, but it didn’t matter. If he’d just bought his one way ticket to Hell, he still had no intention whatsoever of going back, because he was finally free.

\-------------------------------

It happened while Crowley was by himself in the rehearsal studio. It looked directly onto the road and he’d rented it to practice playing his guitar now that he wasn’t in a band anymore, but also to be able to compose freely.

Crowley had been working on his piano-and-guitar suite better and more often, now that he was by himself, and it was coming along pretty nicely. The day of the Cherub’s concert was getting nearer and this made him productive and energized. Things were looking up, except for the fact that he still needed a job or a gig. As usual, he’d been teaching kids and teens to play, giving them private lessons. He still needed something more consistent in terms of revenue… but for now, he was fine.

He rubbed his arms, the outline of his two tattoo snakes keeping him company and coiling from elbows to shoulders, one going upwards and the other downwards. The weather wasn’t cold, but the rehearsal studio faced north and it was still too early to turn the heating on.

_Looks nice enough._

Crowley admired the measures that he’d just written down, then he picked up the guitar and began to play to see how they sounded.

How relaxing this was, how peaceful. Just him, his guitar and the music. Again, again and again. Note after note, riff after chord…

He’d been doing that whole process for an hour when, suddenly, he felt watched. With the guitar still in his lap, he turned around to look over his shoulder, the bangles tingling gently at his wrist.

There was someone else in the studio.

Crowley had no idea of how long that man had been standing there behind him, a few steps away from the door, nor did he know how in Heaven’s name he’d managed to enter. The studio was soundproof, so Crowley figured that he must have let the front door open coming in to rehearse, letting the sound pour into the street as he played. He cursed himself.

The man, tall and buff, didn’t look dangerous at a first glance. He was dressed in a casual business suit and Crowley had to admit that he was really handsome. Black slick hair, strong chin, high cheeks, and a calm smile outstretched on his thin lips. Perhaps he was one of those Mormons?

Crowley was already opening his mouth to say, “I’m not interested, thanks” to whatever he had to say, but the man was quicker than him.

“Good day, young man. Before you say anything, let me tell you – I'm aware of the fact that I’ve come in without knocking and I’ve interrupted you. Please let me introduce myself. My name is Gabriel De Angelis”, he said, handing a business card to him. “I’m a freelance agent and I work for very, very talented musicians.” He gave particular emphasis to the word ‘very’, stressing the ‘V’s, like he wanted to convey some hidden meaning. “Surely you’ve already heard of me. If not, I’m more than happy to provide references.” He concluded his self-introduction with a big grin.

Crowley was speechless. Of course he knew who Gabriel De Angelis was. His name popped up frequently enough in the specialized magazines he read. However, very few people could have recognized Mr. De Angelis in person: because of a professional choice, he never provided nor allowed any kind of photograph of himself. In an interview, Crowley had read that Gabriel De Angelis preferred to keep an aura of mystery around himself which allowed him to move more freely and spot talents without being overwhelmed by people in the streets asking for favours. He was one of the most powerful and influential people in the music industry, having ties with basically all the major record companies and theatres.

Crowley just sat there, mouth opened. He still didn't take his sunglasses off, though. They were his shield, and this man could be a fraud, for all he knew.

“I heard you play as I walked by”, Mr. De Angelis added, noticing his silence, “and I decided to pop in quickly to tell you that I think you could have all it takes to be one of my clients. You, young man, are quite talented. I’m a little busy, of course, but I thought we could schedule a vis-à-vis meeting to talk about it a little more. If you are interested and we find it mutually agreeable, we could even negotiate a contract.”

“How can I know that you are… you know, _you_?” Crowley managed to say at last, momentarily putting aside the avalanche of information he’d just received.

“You can’t be sure”, the man said, opening his arms and making a jovial smile that for some inexplicable reason felt out of place on his face, like the sound of nails on a blackboard. “I guess you just have to trust me.”

Crowley didn’t say anything for half a minute. Thinking about it, a fraud might have tried to convince him with a long, confusing and contradictory speech, producing dubious files and documents and mean tricks. This man had done nothing like that. He’d just pulled out a business card.

With some reluctance and giving in to the part of his brain which _screamed_ with delight at the thought of having Gabriel De Angelis as his potential agent, he decided to trust him. He would back out if he asked for money out of the blue, if he turned out to be someone else, if he asked for too high a compensation (which was highly likely). There were still plenty of moments in which he could say ‘thanks, but no, thanks’. This whole agent business was risky. Luckily, he wasn’t _that_ desperate for money, all in all.

It was all happening too quickly, though. Theoretically, Crowley was an optimist, but people had to earn his trust. “How long have you been there listening to me before I noticed you?”, he asked just to be sure.

Mr. De Angelis laughed, then he checked his expensive wristwatch. “Oh, forty minutes, perhaps?”

Crowley’s throat went dry. He’d been so wrapped up in his work that he hadn’t realized he had a person behind him who’d been watching and listening to him. Also, the fact that the man had managed to stay completely still and silent was more than a little unsettling. But he _could_ still be Gabriel De Angelis…

“If you are who you say you are, then, uhm, yes, of course I’d be interested. But…”

“Perfect! I knew it. If that’s the case, then let’s see…” The man took a leather agenda out of one of the big pockets in his overcoat. He really looked like a legitimate businessman who did not like wasting time in chit-chat. “How about… the day after tomorrow, at 3 p.m.? Are you available?”

Without thinking any further about what he was doing, Crowley nodded (he really wasn’t that busy, after all…) and Mr. De Angelis suggested eagerly to meet at a specific theatre, promptly providing its address. “You see, I’m meeting another client of mine who is rehearsing there. I’m checking in with him and I’ll listen to him for a little while. You could wait for me there before we go discuss the contract. That’ll give you a general idea of how I work.”

There were a couple of seconds in which Crowley was a little confused. This guy was… actually helping a client rehearse? How? Was an agent supposed to do that? Never having had one, he wasn’t sure. Besides, wasn’t it a little unprofessional to invite Crowley to another client’s rehearsal?

Gabriel De Angelis probably had read Crowley's doubts in his silence, because he spoke again without waiting for an answer. “I know what you’re thinking and, believe me, it’s pretty normal. Busy schedule and all that jazz won’t allow me to do otherwise. I’ll just make sure to warn my other client in advance.”

Crowley still wasn’t completely convinced, but he knew that, if that man really was Gabriel De Angelis, it could have been one of the few chances to approach him easily in his sorry life. Take it or leave it. Thinking quickly, Crowley decided to follow his brain and not his instinct.

He blinked once. “Alright”, he simply said.

_Thank God I still have my sunglasses on._

\-------------------------------

“Ok, stay calm”, Crowley repeated to himself for the umpteenth time, breathing deeply. “Don’t fuck it up. _Don’t fuck it up_.”

He checked the name of the theatre and the address once more, like some kind of provincial guy who was on vacation in London for the first time in his life. He mustered enough courage to look cool, opening the front door and stepping in the foyer.

Like every afternoon, the place was empty, apart from a receptionist who invited him to take a seat in the theatre while he waited. Probably Mr. De Angelis had warned her of his arrival. (Yeah. The arrival of a weirdo with red wavy hair falling just below his shoulders, tattooed arms, bracelets and rings, polished nails and black sunglasses. For the first time in years, Crowley felt a little self-conscious about his style.)

To his delight, he could hear music coming from a piano, probably on-stage: De Angelis’s client was a pianist. He smiled. This reminded him that the Cherub’s concert was just some days away. Confidence and inspiration came back into him in an instant, as if a button inside him had just been pushed.

He started to step inside. Before he even set his foot down, though, he changed his mind and made a 180° spin on his heels. With one quick glance to the stage, he had seen the unthinkable.

The Cherub. The Cherub was the pianist. The Cherub, Aziraphale, Albert Zachary Fell was Gabriel De Angelis’s client. He was playing. He was there. Crowley was there, too.

Internally, Crowley experienced several heart attacks in succession, with a delicious side of fainting and a dusting of flatline in his brain.

On the outside, he just stood where he was, his shoulders leaning on the wall next to the door, his breath just a little quicker than normal, unsure of what to do. The receptionist looked at him briefly before going back to minding her own business.

Of course Mr. De Angelis didn’t know how much he worshipped Aziraphale. He couldn’t possibly know. And yet, God – Satan – fate – _someone_ had wanted it to be like that. He was about to sit down in a theatre in which his idol had been practicing for the concert Crowley had bought tickets for. Oh shit. Oh fuck. He felt like a 16-year-old fanboy. Maybe he was. Whatever.

Right then, running away in fear like a blasted coward was not an option. Never had been. He just wished he were… _different_, that he were more like the Cherub. He knew Aziraphale’s favourite pieces of clothing by heart, he knew the way he liked to dress just like a 1940s-ish gentleman. He had watched too many photographs not to know. Colours as soft as clouds composed his white tailored trousers, his tone-on-tone light blue waistcoat and tuxedo over the white silk shirt, the red carnation always at his lapel, gold details everywhere but mostly on his ring and cufflinks. Hell, Aziraphale even wore spats, yes sir, _spats_ over his shoes. The whole ensemble could have made anyone else look like a cartoon character, but on him it looked divine. He looked heavenly.

It didn’t change the fact that the two of them couldn’t have been more different. With his bleached skinny jeans, his loose purple vest and black leather jacket that usually made him so proud of his style, Crowley felt out of place at the prospect of potentially standing in front of Aziraphale. He was afraid of feeling inadequate.

Regardless, he had no intention of letting that chance slip away from his fingers, whatever the Hell could possibly happen. He decided that, as always, it all boiled down to playing it cool (or trying to, at least). He found a rubber band in the back pocket of his jeans and tied the front locks of his hair up and behind, forming a loose bun. (If he had to be honest, he didn’t understand how doing that could possibly improve his general look, but he hoped that at least it did _something_.)

After another couple of deep breaths, he went back into the theatre and he took a seat in one of the back rows, arms leaning on the red velvet seatback in front of him, and he started to listen attentively.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok guys, I've embarked in this multi-chaptered journey. Will I make it? I actually don't know, but I hope so. I have many ideas and I hope to be able to write all the story from start to finish. I hope you enjoy the ride!
> 
> This work is based on my own Musicians AU headcanon list which I posted on Tumblr. You can find info looking for the tags #Ineffable Musicians or #Ineffable Musicians AU. Also if you have artworks inspired by my story be sure to tag me, I'll be happy to reblog them! :)
> 
> If you read this, please notice that realism could be about to fly away at any time. This is the kind of work you write for fun and just to get it out of your (my) system... 
> 
> Each chapter will make reference to a particular song, which in turn may or may not be referenced inside the chapter itself. This time I've chosen The Darkness's "One Way Ticket", only expanded in "One Wat Ticket to Hell".
> 
> Important notice: POV & RATING WILL VARY. POV will switch between Aziraphale and Crowley (perhaps sometimes inside the same chapter). I don't know about rating. It will surely change to M, possibly to E but I'm not sure about that.
> 
> I've written and proofread this work by myself and I'm not an English native speaker, so if you notice any mistakes, please warn me and I'll be happy to fix them.
> 
> Come say hello also on Tumblr, the nickname is @saretton also there. :)


	2. Who Loves You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "This was Aziraphale, who soared high above any other virtuoso pianist of his age and of a vast majority of older colleagues. His ultimate goal wasn’t to be better than the others, because he already was; it was being better than himself, time after time, with constant practice."

_Clearer, purer, better. Clearer, purer, better. Clearer, purer, better._

Three words, a motto echoing and ticking in his mind like a metronome, flowing from his brain to his eyes and fingers. Ivory keys, black and white, just like the bass and treble staves in the music sheet. Black and white, action and reaction in his mind and his hands. A perfect succession of sounds and pauses, making up music and melodies like cogs in a pocket watch.

Aziraphale played and played, his focus directed only on the grand piano in front of him. He was so focussed that he hardly even blinked. Every twitch of his fingers, every breath he took had a purpose. Being a virtuoso was taxing, but he supposed it was worth it in the end. The people who came to his concerts seemed to enjoy his style, carefully built over the strict years of music school, over daily practice; he’d learnt to master his own reactions, forgetting the confrontation with other people to keep his mind on the goal – perfection.

There was always something to be improved, a small pause or pressure which could be honed, tidiness to be brought to a chaotic piece of Liszt. His _La Campanella_, which Aziraphale was currently playing as he rehearsed for his final dates in London, had always been a little tricky for his hands. Sure, the pace was quick, but that wasn’t the problem. In fact, the notes and chords were often far away one from the other on the keyboard. Aziraphale’s fingers were very flexible and quick; however, they weren’t as long as could be expected from a pianist.

In his late teenage years, it had taken him a gigantic effort to master that piece and its execution, to stretch his hand from thumb to little finger while keeping his fingers flexible. And yet, after some time, the joy of success was dimmed by the concern of improving and maintaining that flexibility in his hand without hurting or straining it. The only way to do that was the usual one. Constant practice, for hours and hours every day. After all, that was his job now.

There was no mercy in the pieces he played. Ever. Aziraphale had learnt that at school. Perfection had a cost and, if you weren’t a perfect pianist, the market and the competition would have swallowed you alive and whole, with your fingers still glued to the keys and your feet pressing the pedals. The point wasn’t that of measuring yourself with the competition as you tried to beat them; the point was _setting the bar_, letting the competition try to reach you. By then, you’d have already honed your style, leaving competitors behind you once more with an increasingly difficult standard to overcome.

This was Aziraphale, who soared high above any other virtuoso pianist of his age and of a vast majority of older colleagues. His ultimate goal wasn’t to be better than the others, because he already was; it was to be better than himself, time after time, with constant practice.

Luckily, in his search for perfection, he could count on the help of his agent. Since that private audition during his senior year of school, Gabriel De Angelis had always been there to suggest him, correct him and steer him in the right direction.

He was very strict, like almost all of Aziraphale’s teachers had been. However, he had helped him greatly in his career. Not only was he one of the most renowned professionals in the music industry; Gabriel was also one of the greatest experts in classical music he knew. He could hear nuances and differences in each player’s style like few other experts could. Aziraphale always imagined that he could have been a music professor, if it hadn’t been for the fact that Gabriel was a natural for business and negotiations. Being Gabriel De Angelis’s client was an honour, something to be proud of and grateful for; especially then, as he had to play his final dates of that exhausting tour before some hard-earned time off.

Aziraphale was coming to the end of _La Campanella_ when he stopped playing abruptly.

“Oh, you’ve heard it too, then”, Gabriel said. “Of course, it was plain to hear, anyone could have noticed. Careful with the pressure on the keys in those couple of measures. We want it pianissimo, not just piano. Better to start from the top, mmh?”

Aziraphale started to play the piece again without saying a word. That composition, lasting not even three minutes, was going to drive him crazy. He was starting to feel nauseous at the prospect of having to do it again and again for who knew how many more times. It was for the best, though. Gabriel, whose judgment he trusted blindly, had to be at least satisfied with the result: it meant that Aziraphale’s previous performing standards had been met and the piece was ready to be played in front of a paying audience.

By some kind of miracle and employing all of his willpower to stay focussed, he played brilliantly. He relaxed out of relief. “That’s ok, Aziraphale”, Gabriel said. Blessed words to his ears. “Now, would you mind trying to play it just a little quicker? What would you say?”

It was as if someone had thrown a bucket of ice-cold water in Aziraphale’s face. He breathed to steady himself. He’d been there for hours already and he just wanted to start practicing the next piece in the list (which of course was none the easier).

_Just one last time. I’m positive it’ll be the last time I play this today._

As he turned his neck gently to crack his stiff bones, he caught a twinkle of gold under the lights of the theatre, among the seats.

He froze. “Gabriel. There’s another person in the theatre.”

Leaning in front of him on the piano, Gabriel followed his gaze, unperturbed. “Oh, yes! Nothing to worry about. I was going to tell you – he’s going to be a new client of mine. I told him to wait for me down there, so that we can discuss his contract later.”

The fact that he had an audience of which he hadn’t been warned, and who had been watching him play for who knew how long, did nothing but reset Aziraphale’s brain. Yes, surely Gabriel had forgotten to warn him in time; he was always so busy, after all.

Still, Aziraphale’s palms were starting to sweat. He wasn’t prepared. It added more stress to his stress and it was too much… What if that person knew who he was and how he usually played? What if they were disappointed by the mistakes he had made while rehearsing?

"I'm... I'm sorry, Gabriel. I cannot practice like this." His voice was barely a whisper but he knew that Gabriel would have heard him anyway, even more so in the quietness of that theatre. He tore his fingers away from the keys with something that resembled physical pain, and he was almost surprised not to find bits of his own flesh glued to them by then.

"Oh, Aziraphale, that's no good", Gabriel said with a small pout. "We'd agreed you'd never skip a rehearsal _again_. You know it's not good for..."

"My hands, I know, I know." He passed his palms a couple of times on his thighs, biting the corner of his mouth, before starting to gather up the music sheets he’d taken to practice. (Yet another thing that Gabriel didn’t approve of. “Every good virtuoso shouldn’t need to check the score, not even to practice”, he liked to say whenever he could; but Aziraphale couldn’t help it. The awareness of having the score right there with him, even if he didn’t use it in the end, acted as his security blanket.)

“I think…” Aziraphale wetted his lips. “I think you should’ve warned me.”

“I forgot. You know my agenda. On the other hand, _you_ should focus more. Soon you’ll play your final dates here, in front of thousands of people. Not just one. Not just me. Not just _two_, if you want to include also _him_. Better be ready, keep in shape. There are going to be critics.”

“I _know_.”

“Then I don’t understand why you do this. You’ve been perfectly fine all these years, and now you have all these problems popping up. You can’t allow yourself to cancel any more dates like you did with those two. It’ll affect your playing style. Then again, these pieces are nothing you haven’t done before. I’m sure that you’re going to pull yourself together and you’re going to make it for those last dates here in London.”

“All I know is, rehearsal is over for today. I’m not in… in the mood anymore, won’t be focussed. I’m sorry.”

“It has nothing to do with _mood_, Aziraphale. You’ve always been at the top. Only those who deserve it can stay there. Your public pays for you to play, they expect the best. You know you’re the only one who can give it to them.”

“Gabriel, I know, it’s just… please. This conversation isn’t going anywhere.” He sighed in spite of himself. “We’ve already been there exactly a minute ago. I just need some rest for today. Right now I don’t think I could possibly play _La Campanella_ any quicker than I did.” He let some seconds of silence pass, catching his breath. “It could be this theatre. I don’t know. Perhaps I’ll be more focussed in the one I’ll be actually playing at.”

“Unfortunately, it’s their day off. And you needed your daily practice, so I pulled some strings to let you play here.”

“Yes. Well. I’ll call you to talk about tomorrow’s rehearsal, then.” He could hear his own voice starting to croak. Bad sign. He finished to button his coat up as quickly as he could.

Gabriel shook his head slowly, his lips pursed in a strange smile. “I think you’ll regret this. Of course, I hope not, but… You just need to practice. You _always_ need to. You can’t skip rehearsals. You need to be in top shape.”

“Gabriel, we’re not- we're not restarting this conversation. I’m tired. I’ll just… I’ll just leave. See you.”

He climbed down the stairs next to the stage and walked briskly between two rows of seats to the side. He could have taken the back exit, but he wanted to call for a cab and that was the quickest way out.

Out. Out, out and away. He clutched the folder with the music sheets closer to his heaving chest. Quick steps, quick breaths. He heard Gabriel say something else to him from the stage where he was still standing, but the sounds came muffled to his ears, as if he were underwater.

In his hurry, he brushed the unexpected spectator with his coat as he passed next to him. He couldn’t find the courage to look him in the eyes to apologize. (Maybe he should have introduced himself first? Maybe not? Oh, for Heaven’s sake…). He only caught a slightly blurry picture of the man’s auburn hair, dark sunglasses over a gaping and possibly shocked mouth, and a slender arm resting on the seatback, showing a collection of golden bangles.

God, he was embarrassed. He’d made a fool of himself in front of Gabriel and- and that stranger, but there was no point in staying there anymore if he couldn’t manage to play properly.

Aziraphale flung himself out of the main doors without even greeting the receptionist. Outside, the sounds of the city trampled him all of a sudden, hitting him on the head like a bag of bricks. He frantically waved a hand to call a cab. He launched himself inside, providing his home address to an unimpressed driver.

Along the way, in the stillness of the cab and detached from the buzz of the city, he finally got a hold of himself.

_Thank God._

He felt better now. The important thing was that he was going home.

Luckily, the driver wasn’t the kind of person who is always in the mood for a chat, for once. Aziraphale let himself be lulled by the calming sound of the tires rolling on the asphalt. He closed his eyes, thanking the Universe for those moments of silence and solitude.

\--------------

“Sir. ‘Scuse me, sir.”

Aziraphale woke up. The cab drive hadn’t been very long; after all, he lived only fifteen minutes away from the theatre, which was in the city centre. He was surprised he’d managed to actually fall asleep in the cab after the turmoil at the theatre. Remembering it all, he stifled a wince.

He thanked the driver, paid him and went inside the building, calling the lift to the top floor. While that 1910s-style golden cage took him higher and closer to home, Aziraphale tried to put on his best smile before having to open the door to his flat.

As he stepped in, Madame Tracy, his middle-aged part-time housemaid (and also his self-proclaimed assistant and unwanted psychologist), turned her head from the shelves she was dusting, her big earrings tinkling along. "Bertie dear!” As usual, she welcomed him with the broadest of smiles. “You're home early. I thought you would have it for another two hours at least... Please do forgive the mess, I was finishing the chores, wasn’t expecting to come across you before leaving today. Won’t be long, dear, and then I’ll leave you to your relax routine."

Aziraphale entered the living room of his flat, without minding to take his coat off. Fumbling to the closest armchair and mumbling a "Good afternoon – and it's no problem", he slumped onto it with a sigh of relief.

“Pretty tired, uh?” Tracy arched an eyebrow. Her face demanded an answer.

“It’s been… a hard rehearsal”, Aziraphale said, for lack of better words. He was very fond of Madame Tracy, who had been always by his side since he’d started living on his own in this luxurious London flat. She had been a friend of his grandmother’s, a youngish and lively friend, always colourful and fluttering about as a bluebird. She always put on some eye-catching make up to match her flashy but stylish clothes, although they were mostly concealed under the apron she insisted on wearing when she worked in Aziraphale’s flat.

And a big flat it was. Earning quite a generous sum with every concert and tour he made, Aziraphale had been able to buy that gorgeous suite outright. Sure, the money he had inherited from his mother’s side of the family had also helped a lot; but it was gratifying to think that part of this wealth was the direct consequence of his own making and of his skills.

The loft consisted in a large sitting room with retro chic furniture in beige, orange and brown tones, connected to a sunny rooftop terrace through floor-to-ceiling French doors; a cosy modern kitchen; a study full of bookshelves and music sheets; a big bathroom with marble floors, a hot tub, extremely soft towels and several kinds of bath salts and gels; and, of course, the most comfortable of bedrooms.

The most important piece of furniture was placed in the living room: a big, ivory-white piano lined with golden paint, an enormous heirloom dating back several decades and kept in top-notch condition.

Aziraphale loved tea; he could and would have gladly drunk just tea for his whole life; however, he would have never allowed anybody, himself included, to put even a cup of tea or a glass of water on his beloved piano. Even Madame Tracy had to take the greatest care to dust it; sometimes, when he had time, Aziraphale did it himself. He always looked at it with deep affection and he regularly sent for a trusted tuner, to check that it stayed in perfect conditions.

That said, right now the mere sight of that piano gave Aziraphale a slight sense of nausea. It felt like a backlash. He closed his eyes, trying to relax and clear his mind.

_Just a small effort more._ _Soon Madame Tracy will leave for the day…_

“Done”, she said at last, taking the apron off and grabbing her coat. “Do you want me to do something else for you before I leave? I’d stay to have a chat about today – you look like you _need_ one, for Heaven’s sake – but unfortunately today is a ‘no’ day for me, you know – I’m busy, my grandson is coming over. I could prepare you a quick cold dinner, put on some music. ABBA? Nat King Cole? The Four Seasons? I could put them on shuffle on the stereo, or set the record player for you.”

Yes… Yes – that of putting on some music was a brilliant idea, honestly. Not before he’d relaxed to enjoy it properly, though. He needed his alone time, without Madame Tracy’s birdlike chit-chat.

Dear old Madame Tracy… She was always so caring, always thinking ahead for him. His need to be completely alone stabbed him with guilt, but he masked all of it with an experienced skill. In all those years, he hadn’t practiced just playing the piano as a virtuoso, repeating Hanon’s exercises ad nauseam every other day; he had also practiced playing a part. “Please, Madame, don’t fret. As usual, you’re too kind. I’ll manage from here, thank you.”

“As you wish, dear. Anyway, there’s still some leftovers in the fridge from the other day, I think. Hope it’s alright, I haven’t had time to fix anything else. I’ll see you tomorrow, so you can tell me _what’s going on_ with you, mmh? Have a good night.”

Now comfortably alone, Aziraphale sat for another half an hour on the armchair, perfectly still and quiet, his eyes closed but not sleeping in the least. Then he got up to undress, realizing he still had his coat on.

He wrapped himself in a robe, heading to the bathroom to prepare a soothing bath in his hot tub. He threw a generous handful of vanilla-scented bathing salts in the water and he watched them fizzle and bubble pleasantly as they touched the hot surface. He sank into that warm and fluid embrace, with the silky water rising and stopping just under his nose. Vapours ascended gently like little ghosts, surrounding him and helping loose his muscles. He leaned back, closing his eyes and stretching from time to time in the spacious bathtub. Once the bath was over, he wrapped himself in a warm nightgown with oriental-style pictures of paradise birds, lions and eagles.

In the kitchen, Aziraphale heated in the microwave those roast and vegetables leftovers Madame Tracy had been talking about. Lost in his thoughts, he wandered back to the living room, looking at the glistening lights of London in the evening out of the French doors until he snapped back to reality, hearing the bell ring. He ate dinner in silence.

Only after he’d eaten and tidied up did he start choosing the music for the evening. After giving it some thought, he decided to play on shuffle a playlist of The Four Seasons’ greatest hits.

As the music started to play on the stereo, Aziraphale retrieved a bottle of good whisky from the cocktail cabinet and poured a nice amount in a tumbler. He sat down in his favourite armchair, sipping the amber drink carefully. _Sherry_, _Dawn (Go Away)_ and _Walk Like a Man_ played in fast succession. He found himself humming along despite himself, out of habit rather than pure enjoyment.

Then came _Who Loves You_. With its otherwise happy and carefree rhythm, that damned beautiful song started asking him _questions_.

_Who loves you, pretty baby?_   
_Who’s gonna help you through the night?_

To tell the truth, those lyrics weren’t really meant to be questions. They were meant to complete the end of the first verse, as Aziraphale knew pretty well, being The Four Seasons one of his favourite bands. In that particular moment, though, it was as if a switch had been flipped inside his head. Suddenly, he realized the duality of those lyrics. They were inquisitive as much as he felt vulnerable hearing them. He gulped the rest of the whisky and put the tumbler down on the coffee table in front of him.

_When tears are in your eyes and you can't find the way,_  
_it's hard to make believe you're happy when you're gray._  
_Baby, when you're feelin' like you'll never see the mornin' light_,  
_come to me:_  
_baby, you'll see..._

Sunk in his armchair, with the warm, fuzzy and dimmed lights of his living room wrapping him like a blanket, his body finally loose and free of all the tension he’d piled up during rehearsals, with The Four Seasons lulling him to a bittersweet state of mind and whisky galloping in his blood like a wild horse, Aziraphale finally broke down and started to cry.

_Who is that ‘me’ they’re singing about? Who is singing this? Who are _you_?_

He gripped the armrests so tight that his knuckles turned white.

_Where are you? How can I come to you if I don’t even know where to find you, if I don’t know where _I_ am?_

He shifted on the armchair. He would have liked to dry his own tears with his nightgown sleeves, but what for? He was nowhere near stopping crying. Besides, he was alone. There was no need to worry about keeping up appearances.

_Who loves you, pretty baby?_   
_Who’s gonna help you through the night?_

He couldn’t really rely on anyone to help him figure out why on Earth he had been feeling so bad, even though he was at a point in his life in which he had everything he’d ever imagined. A beautiful flat, a spectacular career, financial stability, a job involving his passion for music.

_I just need…_

His thought remained suspended in his mind.

Gabriel, Madame Tracy, his fans… they all cared for him, he pondered. _Love_ him, though?

_Who loves me?_

And what was that supposed to mean, by the way? How was he supposed to _know_? A bitter, exhausted smile crawled on his face when he remembered one fundamental truth. He didn’t even have any close friends.

By contrast, he couldn’t allow himself to cancel any more dates because of these recent breakdowns. It had already happened twice and Gabriel had been very clear about what it would mean for Aziraphale’s career, should there be a third occurrence.

From time to time, after these more and more frequent breakdowns, Aziraphale wondered whether he needed a psychologist. Eventually, he would put that idea aside every time. He was too busy, even though he had decided recently to stick to UK tours only, without going international. Most importantly, he felt a vague sense of shame at the thought of having to pay a perfect stranger, albeit a professional, to talk about his private life and his problems. It would have been easier if he had someone to talk to in his little free time; and that was another reminder that he didn’t have any close friends. He was running in circles.

He didn’t trust Madame Tracy enough to speak about his personal matters to her, despite the many years she had taken care of him. She was a motherly figure but, just like a real mother, sometimes she pried a bit too much into his life. Madame Tracy had fun pretending to be his confidante; still, Aziraphale didn’t allow her to get too close to him. She meant well, of course; but that was it.

Then there was Gabriel, but he was his agent. He would always read in a professional light everything Aziraphale could possibly say about his discomfort, just like he had done since Aziraphale’s breakdowns had started.

He hadn’t heard from his schoolmates in _years_ because of a personal choice – they used to be too self-absorbed, two-faced and full of themselves to be of pleasant company, especially Michael and Sandalphon. He also didn’t really talk to any of his colleagues, always being extremely kind and supporting towards them but keeping them at bay.

Who was left? Acquaintances. In short, nobody.

_Who loves you?_   
_Who's gonna love you, love you?_   
_Who's gonna love you?_

Aziraphale let the song end and, without even realizing it, he switched the stereo off with the remote control. Once more, silence became his companion, floating around him eerily. He curled up on the armchair, looking outside of the living room windows again, beyond the plants on the terrace and towards the skyline.

The evening dressed herself in her deep blue cloak, decided that it was time for her to leave, and the black-and-gold night-time fell onto London.

\--------------

That night, as he was tossing in bed before falling asleep, he felt that his grandmother was visiting him again.

Aziraphale’s mother, an opera singer, had died when he was still a toddler. From what Aziraphale had been told, she was the most loving and lovely human being, but this couldn’t make up for her poor health. After childbirth, she had weakened considerably and, not even two years later, she had died peacefully in her sleep. Aziraphale had blurry memories of her, mostly relying on happy photographs or general feelings. His father, a sturdy, cold and rigorous man, had never taken too much interest in him and his upbringing.

Dorothea, his mother’s mother, had been Aziraphale’s source of light, love and affection for a very long time. Seeing that Albert’s father wasn’t really that happy to be a single parent, she decided to raise the child on her own; when little Bertie came to live with her, aged two, she had already been a widow for five years.

Aziraphale remembered her tight hugs; her long straight hair made of silver starlight; her grey, soft eyes, as big and shining as rocks in a mountain stream; and by God, he remembered that she was _a lady_. The most motherly lady Aziraphale had ever met.

The skill in music had come from her side of the family, from generation to generation, dating back to a very remarkable noblewoman who had mastered the art of playing the harpsichord in the 18th century. Granny Dot would often tell him stories about their ancestors. She liked to repeat all the time that that noblewoman, their first distant relative so far away in time, had even taken lessons from “Elizabeth Turner herself, soprano and harpsichord composer” (Aziraphale remembered clearly the pride in Granny’s voice when she said that). Granny had been not only the one who had encouraged young Albert to follow the path of music, making him appreciate the wonders of playing the piano, but she had also insisted so that his grandson took harpsichord lessons, too. Aziraphale had always been happy and excited about it; it reconnected him to a great and distant past, full of talented lords and ladies that ultimately had merged into him.

Granny also projected Albert towards the wonders that were waiting for him, when he would be a great pianist. “You and the audience will be united through music. Think about the happiness you’ll bring to all those people as you play! The joy that you will be receiving in return!” He clearly remembered how her eyes would always light up with joy and excitement whenever she said that. Little by little, she shared her love for music with him until it became Albert’s, too.

She had been the most uplifting, inspirational person he’d ever met. Every time he needed her, she had been there. She’d been there with her light and her warmth until she could, when Albert had just passed his audition to be Gabriel’s client. Shortly later, she’d been diagnosed with cancer.

It had been painful to see her gracious, lean and ladylike figure wilt away like a flower in autumn. Her age and the fact that the diagnosis had come too late had made it impossible for her to withstand any kind of treatment; in her last days, she would just rely on morphine. Although her memory had become weaker and weaker, she never lost her radiant smile every time she looked at Aziraphale, even when she was practically forced to stay in bed, waiting patiently for the end to come.

During that time, Aziraphale was starting to win his first competitions. Once – it was a sunny summer afternoon – Granny had held his hand. “Bertie, my dear little Bertie. I’m so proud of you and of being your grandmother. But this is only the beginning. You see? Life is just starting to open up, laying out all of its wonders for you, like a scrumptious picnic. Never forget to keep giving joy when you play the way I told you, my little Bertie. You are destined to accomplish great things and to bring much happiness to the world, just as much as you brought to me. Oh, now, now, please don’t cry. I will still be with you even when you can’t see me. I’ll guide you from beyond, and you will be the angel who brings joy to this Earth through your beautiful music. Remember that, and you will be just fine.”

It had been one of her last flashes of reason before she passed away in her sleep, a couple of weeks later.

As she had promised, Aziraphale could still feel her presence from time to time, in times of need. Maybe it was an autosuggestion, maybe not; but he was _sure_ that she was watching over him, that she would never desert him. Granny Dot always kept her promises. She was a lady. He deduced that, probably, something along the way had gone wrong; something that perhaps was not entirely in his control.

_Granny._

Aziraphale felt like crying again, but he didn’t want to make her sad, wherever she was now. He didn’t want to be seen like that, didn’t want pity or plain compassion from anyone, and especially from her. He needed advice. He tried again, pulling himself together; it was like praying or meditating, in a way.

_Granny, I miss you. You already know that, though. When you were here, everything was clear, the path to walk on was clear-cut. It was bright. Now I have come to the end of that path, but the light is fading and I’m afraid of the dark. I don’t know where to go and I fear what will become of me when I don’t see that light anymore._

He turned around in his king-sized bed, looking out of the window.

_I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know where I’m going. I don’t know how to be that angel you wanted me to be. I don’t even know if you want to listen to me right now, but I need your advice, simple as that. I love you, Granny. I miss you every day. It would be so much easier if you were still here…_

Too tired to focus on something else that wasn’t slumber or darkness, he closed his eyes just as the wind was starting to comb the branches of the trees in the park across the street.

\--------------

That dreaded evening, at last, came and passed; the last concert came and passed; Rachmaninov, Liszt, Chopin came and passed.

Under the lights of the theatre, in his peach tuxedo, Aziraphale executed his pieces like an automaton. They sounded perfectly polished, at their finest, exquisitely cold like they were meant to be.

The audience listened to him. He felt their eyes on him, following his every movement; the people closer to him in the front lines looked directly at his hands, the ones in the back and in the higher balconies watched attentively the maxi screen on which the close-up of their movements were broadcast as he played. Aziraphale had thought of this as something conveying several layers of bad taste; however, hard as he had opposed this idea, he couldn't have done anything to prevent it. Gabriel had already agreed on the matter at the start of the tour and it was a pivotal feature of those London dates, one for which people were willing to pay more: getting to see the Cherub’s hands at work.

Aziraphale played, played, played; and instead of the usual focus and determination, he felt tiredness seething in little by little. He kept himself together, gritting his teeth ever so slightly that no one could notice the change on his face. With an extra amount of willpower, he managed to finish it all, maybe a little more hurriedly than intended. Gabriel would have surely reprimanded him about that last slip tomorrow, on the phone, when he’d call to comment on his performance and on the critics’ opinions… He never told Aziraphale his own impression before knowing the ones of the press.

He played the last measure as if someone else was playing in his place. He restrained from collapsing right there on the grand piano keyboard, and instead he put on the sweetest smile he could, as the Cherub would always do. His resting face had a natural flair for smiles and probably that was one of the reasons why the audience liked him so much. Still, to his own surprise, lately he’d discovered that smiling all the time was becoming inexplicably tiring.

The time came for the usual boring and stiff speeches of the authorities, the usual “thank you”s to be spread far and wide even to those people he didn’t really know. He bowed three times to the audience, coming back to the stage two times more and receiving the usual large bouquet from the theatre staff. The audience would always throw red roses and white lilies at him anyway, just like they were doing now, in a true old-fashioned way which was exquisitely fitting to his persona. As a consequence, the staff of each and every theatre and arena he visited thought it appropriate to indulge the spectators, giving the pianist a proper bunch of flowers after every concert.

Aziraphale liked the flowers. He would have been content with the spontaneous, affectionate homage from the crowd which, from time to time, even managed to make him bleary-eyed; conversely, those gigantic bouquets seemed unnatural obligations more than gifts. He came to understand more thoroughly this feeling after Gabriel had explained to him, without sugar-coating it in the least, that the venues did what the audience expected from them.

Therefore, every single, taxing, demanding time, the Cherub received those not-so-heartfelt bouquets, in addition to the more-than-welcome scattered flowers. Every time, Aziraphale accepted them with his trademark smile, while Albert Zachary Fell would have gladly rejected that so-called homage, dismembering it and throwing it on the crowd, flower by flower.

At last, when all was over and the audience started to drift away, he galloped cheerily to his dressing room, humming a merry tune. Some other bouquets were already piled up in front of the mirror and, without worrying about reading the cards, he placed them aside to change his clothes, looking at himself in that unusual, pleasant mood. He took off his spats, then his jacket and started fumbling with one of the harp-shaped gold cufflinks, which were among the last of his Granny’s birthday presents to him.

Right then, someone knocked on the door.

Usually, Gabriel discouraged Aziraphale to meet fans and visitors at stage doors and in the dressing room; Aziraphale was very careful to do as he said, in order to avoid embarrassing encounters with journalists pretending to be fans or normal people. However, in that moment he was so over the moon for having managed to play that last concert to the end that he answered with a cheerful “Come in!” without thinking too much about it.

The dressing room door opened slowly, its hinges creaking. A big, long bunch of yellow orchids, gently tied together with a simple fuchsia bow, was carefully placed on one of the lower shelves by careful, tentative hands, their fingernails as black and shiny as a crow’s beak.

Still trying to undo his cufflink, Aziraphale was nailed into place. He had quite an inner skill for remembering faces, even the ones belonging to people he had met only briefly. Regardless, those features were practically unmistakable. Auburn hair, golden bangles on lean arms, dark glasses and a slightly pale complexion with abundant freckles.

It was the man who had been in the theatre the day Aziraphale had quit the rehearsal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my, I've managed to hit 6k+ words for this chapter. I'm alright, really. Maybe.
> 
> And as you may have noticed, and like I had promised, realism *did* fly out of the window, I think. Again, this is the kind of work you write for fun and just to get it out of your (my) system...
> 
> The HC about Aziraphale liking Nat King Cole music belongs to @[sparklingjoy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparklingjoy) (AO3) / @realitaestresistent (Tumblr).
> 
> Hope you enjoyed the references I put here and there about classical music, I had to research a bit but I'm satisfied with the result. Hope to insert some more in future chapters. If you want a taste of Elizabeth Turner's music, [there you go](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dviPeavxmOQ).
> 
> Also, rating has gone up in this chapter (as usual, I'm very very cautious, maybe too much) because of a description of an anxiety attack, drinking, mention of cancer and potential depression. I hope it's tactful enough - I would never want to hurt anyone's feelings on these delicate matters.
> 
> This work is based on my own Musicians AU headcanon list which I posted on Tumblr. You can find info looking for the tags #Ineffable Musicians or #Ineffable Musicians AU. Also if you have artworks inspired by my story be sure to tag me, I'll be happy to reblog them! :)
> 
> I've written and proofread this work by myself and I'm not an English native speaker, so if you notice any mistakes, please warn me and I'll be happy to fix them!
> 
> Come say hello also on Tumblr, the nickname is @[saretton](saretton.tumblr.com) also there. :)


	3. Angel Eyes (Love Is Like Oxygen)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s incredible how many details the human eye can catch in the fraction of a second, when it’s interested enough, and how many more beautiful details are sweetly painfully desperately insanely etched into your mind if you have the constancy and the passion to look at the same thing – at the same face – over and over again, after that first taste…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all - Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays :)  
Everyone, I’m so, so sorry for the long wait. What a monster this chapter has been to write and to proofread – more than 22,000 words, when I was originally hoping for it to be at least as long as chapter 2. How naïve of me. I hope it’s worth the wait!  
All the classical pieces I have mentioned as ‘headlines’ are used to set the mood. Feel free to listen to them if you’re curious – just click on the underlined parts.  
Massive thank you to [TheKnittingJedi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheKnittingJedi/pseuds/TheKnittingJedi) and [Wallissa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wallissa/pseuds/Wallissa) for their support. You ladies know what you did and what you always do.

**OVERTURE**

**W. A. MOZART. [Piano Concerto](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3A3Ww00R-_U) No 3 in D KV 40 - Allegro maestoso.**

_Great. What now?_

Crowley was standing there like a bloody lamppost, suddenly devoid of all the good speeches he’d prepared to introduce himself to the Cherub in his dressing room.

_Hi, I don’t think you remember me, but… -_ Self-centred.

“_Maybe you don’t know, but we’ve already met… - _Cheesy.

_Good evening, sir. Forgive my intrusion but I wanted to… -_ Formal.

_Hi, sorry for the other day. Wanna hang out?_ \- Brutal.

_Hello, gorgeous! Did it hurt when you fell from Heaven?_ \- Oh, for fuck’s sake-

All those fanciful openings that had seemed so smug and brilliant when he’d practiced back home now sounded like broken sentences of a third grader’s speech. No – even worse. A third grader would never be so lame. Third graders were smart, they were always running around and making new friends easily without sounding weird or inappropriate or cheesy. Kids had a natural talent for making friends. They didn’t give a shit about the other person potentially rejecting them and, most of all, they hadn’t prepared something not-so-vaguely resembling an evil plan to meet their idol, rehearsed it in advance back home ad nauseam while stress-shouting at their plants, while still allowing their brains to blow it up so fantastically in a three-seconds time span when the right time had come. Crowley had no right to make those stupid comparisons; on the other hand, he couldn’t just say, “Hey, let’s be friends. Let’s play together”.

He wished he were still a kid. Everything would have been so much easier, despite everything.

Looking at the reflection in the dressing room mirror, he saw the Cherub’s face change as it revolved on a merry-go-round of emotions: from the initial surprise, to confusion, to realisation, to his usual smile, only tainted by a hint of embarrassment.

Aziraphale turned around to face him. The lights around the mirror surrounded his elegant figure from behind, backlighting him and crowning him with a pale yellow halo.

_Fuck. He has no right to be always so godlike. This is worse than I expected._

Not to mention that, after all those years of looking at his official portraits, seeing the Cherub without his jacket was a little shock in itself.

Crowley had made an extra effort to get ready for that first meeting. _You can’t judge a book by its cover_, he’d thought, _but this time, looks could be of help_.

He’d started with choosing the perfect outfit – a sort of armour to boost his confidence, so to speak. He’d decided not to care in the least about the potential dress code of the theatre, as most VIPs tended to come in even more extravagantly clothes than his, anyway. (Being second best to them? No thanks. Crowley would be meeting the Cherub with the best outfit he had, for fuck’s sake. He would go big or go home.)

Eventually he’d put together black tight trousers with a sparkly top completely covered in gold sequins (his pride and joy). And of course, his beloved bangles and a leather jacket.

Back home, when he’d tried the outfit, he had thanked his lucky star for having made him so prodigal in buying clothes, when the gigs with the Children were still a thing that happened, and also for not giving an absolute fuck about what people could possibly think about his fashion choices. Well, most of the time, and until then, when he was finally face to face with the Cherub who still managed to look so elegant and refined compared to everything he could have ever planned. He prayed to some unknown deity that he didn’t look like a broomstick in a golden tinfoil.

As a third step (the second, of course, had been rehearsing those very damned and very lame lines of self-introduction)… well. He’d thought it rude to go there empty-handed, even more so when he wanted to apologize. After some consideration, he had settled for a nice bouquet of orchids. He’d picked the yellow ones as a message of friendship. They were expensive but he couldn’t care less: it was, metaphorically speaking, an olive branch.

Some days before, when Aziraphale had stormed out of the theatre, Crowley had overheard the whole conversation between him and De Angelis (thank God for the perfect acoustics of that theatre) and he’d made a couple of simple deductions.

Number one: Gabriel De Angelis was, indeed, a rotten asshole and he’d been right not to trust him completely.

Number two: _he_ (Gabriel) was possibly the main reason behind the change Crowley had felt in Aziraphale’s public behaviour over the years, the reason behind his sad eyes being paired with the sweetest of smiles. From that little scene he’d seen, that man was completely ruining the life of a wonderful musician and had been doing that for who knew how long.

When Crowley had started negotiating with De Angelis, shortly after Aziraphale had fled the rehearsals, he’d already put a small plan together in his mind.

Crowley liked to play it cool and detached, but deep down he couldn’t bear seeing people being arrogant, couldn’t stand mistreatments of any sort. The fact that the mistreated one was the Cherub only made the whole thing worse and had made Crowley more determined in his purposes: he wanted to help him, if only out of human compassion.

It was impulsive. It was illogical. It was nonsensical. But that was him; that was Crowley.

That day, after Aziraphale had fled the theatre, Gabriel De Angelis had started the conversation with his usual, unsettling ear-to-ear smile, sitting at a table in the theatre café. “First of all, young man, I’d rather look at you in the eyes, so I would ask you to take your sunglasses off from now on when we meet.”

“First of all”, Crowley had replied with his best poker face, “I’ll have you know I’d rather not.”

“Oh. Well, I can’t say I’m happy to hear that, Anthony, so-”

“I, too, can’t say I’m happy to be on a first name basis with you, Mr. De Angelis. I’d ask you to call me Mr. Crowley, please. That’ll be fine. Thank you.”

That had set the tone of the whole conversation, which from the outside could have looked like a mob negotiation rather than a business one. Hadn’t it been for Aziraphale, Crowley would have never even thought of signing a legally binding document with that guy. Nonetheless, he’d signed.

What a pain in the ass it had been, though. Really. He’d had to haggle on every single point of the contract to make sure his finances weren’t going to be stripped to the bone by all those clauses. He knew the ways of the world enough to be aware of how dangerous the implications of some legal bindings would have been – too high a percentage here, too little remuneration there.

In order to be closer to Aziraphale and to find some common ground with him, he was determined to hire Gabriel De Angelis as his agent, whatever that could have meant (nothing good, probably); however, he also wanted to retain a little self-preservation, for someone’s sake. The negotiation had been long and exhausting; eventually, he’d signed.

Scheduled private rehearsals in order to ascertain Crowley’s skill level in detail. Perhaps a couple of auditions, if his preparation proved to be satisfactory enough. Some gigs, with any luck. And, knowing about this, he’d signed.

Long story short, there he was now, possibly regretting every decision he had made up to that point and his stupid, intricate plan.

If the Cherub refused his tentative proposal of friendship, Crowley’s financial situation would start to become somewhat messy. Crowley was confident of his own talent, even though he didn’t like to brag about it, but he was also pretty much unknown as a musician. He couldn’t afford to pay De Angelis regularly in the long run. By doing that, his hard-earned money would be over in less than a year, unless De Angelis found some gigs for him in the meantime; and even so, he had no assurance about the success of De Angelis’s work.

Why had this idiotic plan looked like a brilliant idea only some days before? Why hadn’t he thought about that a little longer?

_Damn me. Damn me and my fucking impulsiveness._

And in all this thinking, Crowley hadn’t uttered a single one of all the _extremely brilliant_ words he’d prepared.

Then, with an unexpected miracle, the Cherub came to his aid. “Good evening”, he said. Just like that.

He looked a little sheepish and Crowley couldn’t grasp why. For Heaven’s sake, _he_ was the one who had come there to apologize to Aziraphale.

“Good… Hello.” Crowley fidgeted moving his left foot, rotating the ankle and making it crack. Safe ground, for the moment. He cleared his throat. “I… brought you some flowers, ah… I wanted to apologize for the other day at the theatre. You know.” Words were coming out of him slowly, oh so slowly, pulled out of him with a rusty hoist, creaking and cringing between his teeth. “I was… I was there, and…” Crowley gestured vaguely, hoping that he would catch his drift.

“Oh! Yes, I know… I remember.” The Cherub bowed his head slightly, with a shy smile and two very small and very pink blotches appearing on his cheeks.

Crowley’s tongue resisted the impulse of asking “You do?” like a fucking teenager. By contrast, his mind couldn’t possibly resist the impulse of doing a back flip as Crowley noticed the way Aziraphale’s reddening cheeks looked like blooming roses (God, it wasn’t an overstatement – he could have sworn that on Freddie Mercury’s vocal cords if he’d been still alive). He wasn’t prepared, he would never be prepared to see the Cherub in person and so close to him.

“Actually”, Aziraphale went on, “there’s no need to apologize. _I_ should be the one doing that. I’m sorry I left in a hurry without even saying goodbye – perhaps I should have introduced myself? I don’t know.” He breathed out a brief and nervous laugh, his fingers still tormenting the cufflink without undoing it.

Crowley couldn’t believe his ears. _The Cherub_ was talking about apologizing to _him_. It was the very last thing he’d have expected from this meeting. Lacking anything intelligent to say, he just stood there, trying not to look bewildered or confused or speechless, and probably failing spectacularly at all three of them.

“Then again, you probably already know who I am, since you’ve come here and you were probably among the audience tonight…”

“Wait”, Crowley blurted out. “The thing is, I’ve come here to apologize to _you_. Not the other way around. I… I actually didn’t know that _you_ didn’t know I’d be there.”

Aziraphale looked taken aback. Yes, taken aback. By what? Perhaps he hadn’t been clear enough?

“I’ve heard your conversation with Mr. De Angelis. What you said to him, the way you left… When I saw you leave, I was mortified. You were clearly in distress, and… I felt sorry. I wanted to tell you, but you were gone before I could even stand up…”

“There’s no need for apologies, really.” Aziraphale’s eyeless smile sprang up again, and Crowley shut his mouth making a small clicking sound with his teeth. He wasn’t expecting an interruption. “Gabriel is always so busy. It’s only natural that he forgot to tell me about your presence. I was just a little annoyed with him, that’s all.”

“Oh. Right”, Crowley said.

_That sounds like a big box full of bullshit neatly wrapped up with a ribbon of denial, if I ever met one_, he actually thought.

“Thank God I have some time off now, before the next concerts.” He sighed, still twisting and pinching the cufflink. Crowley wasn’t sure that Aziraphale had any intention of undoing it, by then. “Anyway, thanks for the orchids. They _are_ lovely. You’ve been exceedingly kind.”

Aziraphale was already giving him a final smile before turning towards the mirror, his hand abandoning that poor cufflink to go untie his bowtie.

It sounded like a goodbye. The very last thing Crowley wanted.

He decided to play the ace he had been hiding up his sleeve. “Yes, uh… I also wanted to ask you if you remember that… we… we went to school together?” (Ah! – The beautiful art of approaching the subject carefully, an art that Crowley had never grasped in his life…)

Aziraphale’s eyebrows arched up. He turned around, giving Crowley the dreaded once-over he didn’t want to receive, even while sporting the best outfit he’d put together. Aziraphale looked like he could open his mouth to utter a loud ‘Oh, good Lord!’.

Yes. Perhaps he _did_ look like a broomstick in a golden tinfoil, after all.

“We did for a while, at least. Before I got, uh, kicked out…” Crowley’s voice volume became progressively lower as he spoke. Bad idea, bad idea, that of mentioning that he’d been kicked out.

“Did we?”

Crowley gulped. His feet were glued to the ground in a perfect display of stubborn desperation.

“Yes. I spent there a year and a half. Then I started working the odd jobs, became a sort of self-taught musician. With my savings, I managed to pay for my electric guitar…”

“Oh.”

“So, I was thinking that, since we were schoolmates, so to speak… Well… Basically, I would like to apologize and repay your patience, if I can. That is, if-”

“I… understand and – thank you, really, but there’s no need. Besides, I’m not sure Gabriel would approve… I mean, I would never want to be rude, but…”

"Oh, about that – about Gabriel, I mean. I decided to sign that contract I was there to discuss. I'm his client, too, now."

"Oh, uhm, I'm… That's… interesting. Good for you, you’re going to have a… a great career." Aziraphale sighed. "Although I’m tempted to, well… wish you luck, in a way."

Not exactly the best of encouragements but, given the recent events, Crowley was expecting some reaction along those lines. "I can imagine. From what I’ve been told, he’s basically the best agent any musician could ever wish for, but he also comes at… at a price.” He twirled the bangles around his arm with a hand to muster some more courage. They chimed promisingly, like a good omen. “Truth be told, I was wondering if you had any tips."

"Tips... on what?"

"Well, on him."

"Such as?"

"Is he really as much a perfectionist as he looks like?"

"Oh. Well, if he weren't, I don't know who else would and could be, honestly." Aziraphale giggled and wiggled at the same time.

He was so illegally cute. If Crowley hadn’t been too focussed on trying not to make a fool of himself for the length of that conversation, he would have hugged him right then and there, and to Hell with social boundaries and personal space.

"That's why he's my agent", Aziraphale concluded, immediately getting back to a more professional stance.

"So… should I expect some amount of scolding in the future? I’m not much of a perfectionist. At least I don’t think I am like that about the things that could matter to him."

"Why should he scold you? He _picked_ you. You must be extraordinarily talented. Gifted, as they always say… if you know what I mean. Gabriel wouldn't have approached you otherwise. Yes, though, he likes things done in a certain way."

"You sound like you know him quite well."

"Well... He's been working with me for more than, what? Must be twelve years, now, maybe a little more. We talk a lot."

“I can imagine.” Crowley sighed. That conversation was getting even more difficult than he’d expected. There was no need to beat around the bush. “Look, going back to what I wanted to ask you-”

“Ah, yes- Please, I’d be grateful if you didn’t insist. I will not accept gifts, or money, or anything alike-”

“No no no! I meant that we- we could hang out a little, one of these days. Given that we were schoolmates, apparently.” (_Yeah, right, _apparently_. Go say that to all the hours you spent sitting outside of that classroom to listen to him play._) “It would be nice to talk a little about school times, make a trip down Memory Lane… and the likes.”

There, he’d said it. No rewind option, no way to take that back, _alea iacta est_. His only chance to apologize properly to the Cherub, to talk properly about what had happened at the theatre before disappearing again as one simple fan in a crowd of thousands.

“Ah. Oh, oh… I… I see.”

Crowley remained silent, giving Aziraphale the time to let his offer sink in.

The anticipation of his answer weighed Crowley down like a grindstone tied around his neck. If he got the answer he feared, he was metaphorically ready to jump into a well with it. The lifelong shame of having to think back to this conversation didn’t seem a bearable prospect, in case of defeat.

"Look. Look, it’s not something that I’d consider often..."

Aziraphale trailed off, looking unsure and somewhat confused.

_Oh God, here comes the ‘Thanks but no, thanks’ part, brace yourself, Crowley, fasten your seatbelt. You’ve been getting this in the past, time and again, nothing new, it should be easy peasy by now..._

Then, a switch. Aziraphale glanced briefly upwards (Did he? Crowley wasn’t sure), he looked at him in the face and gave a bashful smile.

"...but it could be a nice change, for once."

Crowley sucked a breath in. (He hoped that Aziraphale hadn’t noticed.) "Would… it?"

"Sure. Why not?" Was that the hint of a mischievous smirk on his lips? What the fu- Was the world turning upside down without notice, all of a sudden? "Second thinking already, are you?"

What the Devil was going on? Was he awake? "N-no, it's just… It’s that… I wasn't exp-…” (_Breathe, you bloody idiot, _breathe_!_) “N-nevermind. I'm happy to hear that."

"So… did you have an idea in mind already about it? Where would you like us to go?"

"Dunno, I was thinking of somewhere quiet. Like, maybe, a stroll in St. James's?"

He was actually very unprepared on the subject, blurting out the first place that had popped into his mind. He hadn’t planned this far, hadn’t dared hope too much. He _was_ an optimist, but you know… one day at a time. Baby steps. Learn to walk before running and flying. Pick who you can trust. And yet…

"Oh! It's been some time since I last went there. Wonderful idea."

"When?" (_Very suave, Anthony J. Crowley, uh-uh._) “I mean, when are you available?" (_I mean, if there ever was a degree in jumping out of the frying pan and into the fire, I swear to God I’d have a honoris causa in it by now…_)

"I have something like three weeks off before touring the country again for some other concerts. Whenever you're more comfortable will be perfect, provided it's in the afternoon."

"Why’s that?"

"Ah- well, in the morning, I- I practice."

"Oh." Right. Right.

"Don't worry, though, it's nothing I haven't played before. The usual exercises, dusting off some pieces…"

And then (_Would you _believe _it, holy Hell?_), after Aziraphale had reassured him some more, they – holy fuck, they picked a date. They really did. It was settled, they were going to meet.

It was unbelievable. Beyond Crowley’s wildest dreams. He was about to touch the moon, hug her, dance a waltz around the Solar System with her. He’d made it. He’d made it!

He went to the door. “Well, thank you, then. Thank you very much! I… I guess I’ll see you soon. Thank you again.” (_How many more ‘thank you’s do you want to say, for God’s sake?_) “Well, then, good night!”

“Oh, no, wait!”

He stopped in his track, his hand already on the door handle.

“Could I… could I possibly know your name, before you go?”

Crowley didn’t know what colour his face had turned when he answered. He’d been so worried, so focussed, so _stupid_ that he’d forgotten to introduce himself. (His mind immediately went to the Cast Out Children. This whole situation would have provided outstanding laughing material for them, if only they had known. Luckily, they didn’t know. _Wouldn’t_ know.)

“I’m Anthony, but- well, everyone calls me by surname. You can just call me Crowley.” He put on his best encouraging smile, summoning it who-knew-how from the bottomless pit of his self-perceived awkwardness.

“Crowley, mmh? Alright.” The Cherub nodded. “Also, I should give you my address and phone number. We could meet at, I don’t know, 4pm? I’ll have to ask you if you can swing by at my place, it’s easier for me. If you don’t mind, of course.” (Mind? It was a miracle that he was still standing, that he hadn’t been struck by some lightning already. The mere _idea_ of getting to see his idol’s house…)

Aziraphale wrote everything down on a post-it that he retrieved from a drawer. A neat, rounded and embellished handwriting, just like its owner.

Only later, reading that post-it more carefully, did Crowley realize that Aziraphale had given him a landline number. He smirked. It looked like the Cherub didn't even own a mobile phone…

\--------------------------

A couple of days before- uhm, before _meeting_ Aziraphale again (_Very safe word, _meeting. _I like it_), De Angelis arranged the first of those scheduled rehearsals he wanted from Crowley.

Crowley wasn’t exactly keen on showing his skills to his agent _again_, especially after that creepy first encounter they’d had. (What person of sane mind listens in on purpose for forty minutes before being busted and introducing themselves?)

However, in his defence, he _was_ going to try and make a very good impression on him. If he really had to be legally bound to De Angelis for the foreseeable future for the sake of the Cherub, he could at least spend his own money well and put some real effort into it. He didn’t have a clear plan (big surprise, he never had a clear plan, and when he had one, it failed). For the moment, the main goal was studying De Angelis’s methods, supposing that he wanted to use on Crowley the same ones he’d been using on the Cherub.

Together with Mary, his red-and-black snakelike guitar, Crowley arrived an hour early at the same rehearsal studio where he’d met De Angelis. He did his vocal warm-ups dutifully, checked that Mary was tuned, rehearsed the pieces he’d chosen to play. He’d even picked the plectrum of his collection which he thought would be the most appropriate to the occasion, as a sort of final touch.

Mr. De Angelis, like the perfect businessman that he was, showed himself at the studio on the dot, and after a couple of lukewarm-to-cold greetings, they got straight to business.

As a performer, Crowley had no problem having an audience when he was on stage. He became another person, so to speak, more fitting to his extravagant outfits and to the songs he covered, a flirty and bigger-than-life drama queen that would’ve made Freddie Mercury’s heart swell with pride.

He wasn’t on a stage right now, though. No flamboyant persona to show off with, no inner Freddie to channel. Just a live demo for his new demanding and detested agent. (Did De Angelis know anything about the music genre he played, now that he thought about it? Crowley would have liked to pretend he didn’t care at all about what his agent did or didn’t know about glam rock or even rock in general; but the point was, if they had to have this business relationship, they both had to put some effort into it, at least for now. Crowley was doing his part, but having an agent who, despite his extraordinary fame, didn’t know a thing about his client’s music wouldn’t be very promising.)

Despite everything, Crowley played the best he could. He’d chosen two specific pieces – the up-tempo _20th Century Boy_ and the slightly more relaxed _Killer Queen_ – in the hopes of showcasing the musical and vocal skills he had as best as possible. He could say to be proud, even, of the way both songs turned out; then again, he’d been playing and singing them over and over again for years. They felt like a pair of comfortable, warm mittens on his hands as he played, like a colourful and merry scarf around his throat as he sang.

When he finished, he looked at De Angelis and found him nodding solemnly. Encouraged by his reaction, Crowley got ready to play a third piece: a more polished version of his composition, or at least what bits of it were more playable than the others at the moment.

It wasn’t much on the whole, and of course there was no arrangement – just the main melodic line, and yes, he would have needed someone else to play the piano to give a better idea of the harmonies and everything else, and he had half a million of other ‘ifs’ and ‘buts’… but for now, it was ok.

He’d wanted it to be something like a final surprise. However, to his disappointment, De Angelis started speaking before he could even play the first note.

“Good, very good – that’s alright for now, I’ll check what else you have in store further on. I’ve said this before and I’m going to say it again – you have talent, Anthony.”

_God, here we go again._

Crowley’s eyebrows furrowed as he said, “It’s Crow-”

“Oh, come on, let me just call you Anthony. I think it establishes a more easy-going, informal working relationship between the two of us.”

_Oh no, it does_ not_._ _You are not my friend. You are not my _father_._

Not that Crowley had actually ever met his father. He’d developed a loathing of him, resenting the way he’d left him (aged two months) and his mother to fend for themselves, vanishing into thin air during a summer night.

Crowley’s mother had told her son that, when she’d tried to call him, if only to know if he was alright, Anthony Senior had all but answered with brief sentences along the lines of “I’m sorry to tell you this now, I never really wanted a child in the first place, I can’t do this, it’s too much for me, goodbye.”

“Fine”, had been the reaction of Crowley’s mother (as told in her own words, of course), “you didn’t want this? You should’ve told me, you rotting sewer on two legs, instead of acting like the most enthusiastic dad-to-be for nine whole months. Newsflash, asshole – the baby and I, we don’t actually need you. I’m going to fucking take care of the two of us by myself, you bastard. Don’t you dare call again. Goodbye to _you_, see you nevermore.” And she’d hung up. (No wonder Crowley was such a drama queen, too – he’d taken from his mother.)

If Crowley had to be honest, his mother hadn’t always been up to the task of being a parent (and a single one, at that) over the years, having had problems of her own to deal with (which Crowley didn’t like remembering, either). However, on several occasions, at least she’d proven to love and care for her son in her own unusual way.

To tell the truth, Crowley had been named Anthony Junior after his father when he was born – that’s how much her mother was in love with him, he’d reasoned as soon as he’d grown up enough to form an opinion of his own on the past and current state of his one-member family.

Therefore, it had only been natural that, when Anthony Senior up and left them, her shock had been even bigger than expected. You just can’t heal a wound like that, apparently; and as far as memory allowed Crowley to watch the reruns of his childhood in his mind, each of the few times his mother had happened to mention Crowley’s father, she would unfailingly call him just ‘that fucking son of a bitch’.

Those were the only scraps of information that Crowley had collected about his father over time: an official name, a string of less than pleasant names given by his mother, her tale about his disappearance.

He didn’t even known what he looked like. There had never been a single picture of his father around, and this made it all the easier for Crowley to project the entirety of his frustration about the unfairness of life and his resentment about his not-completely-peaceful childhood on that man he didn’t know.

There, in the rehearsal studio, Crowley was starting to think that his father, with some imagination, could have been someone like Gabriel De Angelis.

Talking to him was nearly impossible. His arrogance, his lack of empathetic and human interest in what he was doing – Crowley might as well have tried to speak to rocks in order to have a more fulfilling conversation than the one that had just started. It was torture, that’s what it was.

_Please, God, God, if you hear me, let this be over as soon as possible._

“In any case”, Gabriel resumed talking, “I’ll be busy checking in with some of my other clients these days, so we’ll have to plan ahead a little. Before our next meeting, I want you in top shape and you’ll have to have put together a decent audition portfolio.”

“I appreciate your concern, but I’ll have you know I already have a _decent_ audition portfolio. I’ve had it for more than ten years now.”

“Well, with all due respect, it didn’t get you anywhere significant, did it?”

Crowley’s jaw went slack. Jesus Christ, the fucking _nerve_ of this man-

“All I’m saying is, with my suggestions, you could go way farther than this. You could fill whole arenas, even, with due time. Sure, we’d have to tone your look down a bit first.”

“Whoa, whoa, wait.” Crowley gestured to himself while clutching Mary’s neck with his left hand. His knuckles were starting to turn white and, in turn, six metal strings were pressing hard into his fingers as if they were more than ready to saw them off. “_This_ is my look, my style. This is _me_. I’m not willing to do anything about it. There’s nothing here to ‘tone down’ or- or to fix. We’ve already talked about this before I signed the contract, remember?”

“I know, Anthony, but – be reasonable. I’ve given it some thought, and our target audience is never going to be drawn to a style as… peculiar as yours.”

_Peculiar_. And to think Crowley had deemed his black T-shirt and burgundy trousers serious enough, just for this one time, to make a better impression on him… _There will be time to show him my stage costumes_, he’d thought. How naïve. (That’s the problem when you’re an optimist at heart, even when it takes you some time to lower your guard. You never learn.)

And what was that ‘target audience’ talk, anyway? Why was De Angelis mentioning it only then? Had he been planning to play this card at his own convenience to put some more pressure on Crowley?

“We can keep the sunglasses”, De Angelis went on, trying and thankfully failing to see Crowley’s eyes, “they can still be your trademark. They could work. The rest, though, should be more… you know…”

Crowley arched an eyebrow. “…Normal?” Somewhere in his head, he vaguely realised that his better judgement had been clouded by a red thick fog, and he hadn’t even noticed.

“There, exactly! You’ve said it. Normal.”

“Ok, ok, stop. I’ve had enough of this bullshit. Let me spell it out for you. From now on, do not, and I repeat, do _not _tell me how I should or shouldn’t dress, ever. Do not tell me how normal I should be.”

Gabriel De Angelis sighed. He looked like a disappointed parent – the disappointed father Crowley had never had. “I’d had a feeling that this business relationship was going to be bumpy when we signed the contract, but I see now that it’s going to be even tougher than I expected. As your agent, I just want to help you, but you won’t go very far with that attitude, Anth-”

“Just call me Anthony one more time and _I swear_ I’ll…”

A split second after Crowley had snapped, his brain started working again, pulling the emergency brake in a panic. The derailed train of Crowley’s wrath halted with a shrieking sound, bearing no casualties but his own self-esteem which turned into self-consciousness at the drop of a hat. Above the buzz in his ears, Crowley could hear his brain bitch-slapping itself repeatedly.

_You idiot. You impulsive _idiot_. No threats, Crowley. No. Threats. For fucking fuck’s sake, it’s rule number one-_

Outside of him, in the studio, there was a silence you could have cut with a lame knife.

“Very well, I’m leaving you to get a hold of yourself”, De Angelis said eventually. “I’m going to call you again in some days’ time to see if you can reason properly by then. I suggest you work on putting your audition portfolio together in the meantime.”

And with that, he left – and he left Crowley fuming.

From the guitar headstock, Mary’s slitted, snakelike eyes peeked into him with a hint of concern. (Funny how Crowley could always look into her wild, orange eyes and see a tiny bit of himself mirrored there.)

“What a mess, old gal. What a fucking mess.”

He didn’t know if he was talking about the whole situation with De Angelis, or himself, or both.

_Both. Both it is._

In her reptilian wisdom, Mary didn’t even bother to hiss an answer at her owner.

\--------------------------

**W. A. MOZART. Piano Sonata No. 11** **in A major, K. 331 / 300i. [III. _Alla Turca_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=quxTnEEETbo). **

And so they hung out a first time, apparently.

“Oh, here you are, finally!”

Aziraphale had only opened the door to his flat and already Crowley had been feeling overwhelmed. The ‘I’ve never been able to do this and I am certainly not beginning to do it correctly now’ kind of overwhelmed.

He was in what must have been one of the most expensive block of flats in London; downstairs there was a man who damn well looked like he was the concierge and who’d given him a suspicious sideway glance as he’d come in through the sliding doors.

He’d gotten into what looked like one of those lifts in _Titanic_, but better – a sort of Art Nouveaux golden cage. The bloody thing even dinged.

He’d walked on the white marble floor of the top floor hallway, his footsteps echoing eerily in that warm, unnerving and softly-lit liminal space.

Now Crowley was trying not to gulp too loud after he’d got to see Aziraphale’s face as close as he’d ever had. That smile, his damned smile was there, wholesome and sweet, completely earnest and pure.

As he tried to retain some dignity (“_Keep it cool_”, he half-prayed, half-chanted in his head, “_keep it cool_”), he noticed there was something in Aziraphale’s expression which looked new to him (now _that_ was a surprise), but he couldn’t figure out exactly what.

He reciprocated with a trembling smile, though he wasn’t sure of the vibe he was giving off. Suddenly, keeping his sunglasses on while pulling that awkward half-grin à la Charlie Brown didn’t seem a good decision anymore.

Besides, he’d come perhaps too early – Aziraphale was still getting dressed, as Crowley realised with a despicable amount of blood flowing to his own cheeks. He’d been buttoning his linen shirt up when he’d opened the door, and a small triangle of skin was still visible in his upper chest.

_Oh, for the love of God. This, too, now. Why _me_?_

As long as one lives, life just keeps giving free and totally unprompted lessons; Crowley had just learnt the surprising and hidden power that a couple of unfastened shirt buttons had over him.

From somewhere in the living room, ABBA were singing their heart and lungs out as gently as they could. Crowley wondered when adding clichés to the clichés to that moment had become a sport which he was competing in.

_Andante, andante,  
_ _tread lightly on my ground;  
_ _andante, andante,  
_ _oh, please, don’t let me down…_

Nice. Some more performance anxiety faintly aimed at him was just what Crowley needed.

_Thanks, Swedish kings and queens of pop._

He didn’t like receiving unwanted advice from anyone, let alone from songs popping up during the least appropriate moments of his life – on the radio, on the speakers in random shops, now apparently even there in Aziraphale’s house. He didn’t need a reminder not to screw up the precious time he was about to spend with the living person who inspired him the most, thank you very much.

“Doesn’t matter”, the Cherub was saying in the meantime, “as you can see I’m late, too. Please do come in, have a seat. I’ll be as fast as I can – chop-chop!”

“‘Chop-chop’?” Crowley echoed, trying not to laugh.

And when Aziraphale actually made a small laugh in his turn, Crowley realised what was different in him.

His eyes – Aziraphale’s eyes were _alive_ above his smile. No corners slumping downwards, no sad aftertaste – they were actually tuned to his lips for once, beaming with energy and… and what? ‘Anticipation’ was the first word that came to Crowley’s mind, but it sounded so incredible and strange that he decided to file it in the small ‘To Be Mulled Over Later’ drawer of his brain.

“Make yourself at home”, Crowley heard Aziraphale say as he headed to the corridor. Shortly after, he was engulfed into what had to be his bedroom, which Crowley did _not_ think about with slightly morbid curiosity, not at all. (Ok, not too much.) (He felt like the most embarrassing and embarrassed of groupies, to be really honest.) (Then again, he was in Aziraphale’s house. _He_, Anthony J. Crowley, _was_ in _Aziraphale’s_ house.) (Oh, fuck.)

Out of a sudden need to distract himself from those pointlessly repetitive thoughts, he took the chance to look around the living room.

Spacious but a little cramped. Luxurious, of course. Absolutely vintage in a very good way – it hosted a series of pieces of furniture that set the whole room in a confusing mix of decades, from the late 1920s to the early 1970s.

A sofa and two armchairs, a number of lamps scattered here and there, a small series of overstuffed shelves and bookcases full of books and music sheets, a rug that had to be an Authentic Persian One, a white-and-gold princess rotary telephone on the coffee table and a fucking chandelier dangling in the middle of the ceiling. Despite making the room look like an excessively furnished ballroom, all of these elements managed to be in an unexpected harmony of their own, mostly because of their soft and warm colours.

Crowley’s eyes were inevitably drawn to the majestic white piano that ruled the entire space behind the sofa, perfectly orientated so that the player would profit from both the natural light coming in from the French windows and the various electric light sources in the room. He went next to it to have a closer look.

A music sheet was spread open on the ornate music rack. Crowley made to close it, lifting the cover instinctively to read the title, and he almost had a stroke.

There they were, Bach’s _Goldberg Variations_, the ones he’d heard Albert play the first time he’d passed in front of that blasted classroom.

……It was Crowley’s second week at that school and it had already been something of a Hell, with his schoolmates being generally devils in disguise, the teachers not helping him a bit to fit in and, well, Crowley being Crowley.

It was a sunny afternoon and he was going to the toilets – that time, at least, he hadn’t bluffed to have an excuse to go out of the classroom and take a brief stroll, like he’d started to do. For once, he really just needed to go take a piss.

Then he heard it. (Call it Stockholm Syndrome, if you like.)

Celestial harpsichord music. He hadn’t even been aware that the school had a harpsichord, to be honest.

Crowley forgot everything – his first problems as he’d been trying to fit into that posh, conservative and stern environment; his awkward and fake smugness; his own weird eyes that, cursed as they were, had already been earning him the first unwanted and mild-to-medium attentions of the school bullies. He even forgot about the toilets he had been going to.

He followed the music like a rat would have followed an invisible Pied Piper. Its source wasn’t near, but also not so distant to be untraceable. It pulled him, tugged him closer, making him curious and surprisingly excited of something shrouded in mystery, buried in the unknown.

Eventually he stopped. He stood there, in the middle of the hallway, nailed in front of a closed door oozing with music that filled his lungs with something vibrating and jumping. It was something more than the music itself, more than the unchangeable sounds of the harpsichord. It was the way in which the music was played. He’d been there for only half a minute when he realised he needed more air. He unfastened his tie just as the player stopped performing those devastating miracles on him from beyond a closed door.

“Outstanding!” he heard a man (a teacher?) say enthusiastically. Thank somebody for paper-thin, not-soundproofed walls (the school really needed to spend their money better). “That was one of the best renditions I’ve heard so far of _Variation n.4_, so very similar to Glenn Gould’s, I dare say.”

A young man’s tinkling voice, quivering with excitement, crispy and mellow like freshly baked bread, made Crowley all ears. “Sir! My… my style, similar to Glenn Gould’s? Oh, I couldn’t possibly-”

“Nonsense, nonsense – trust your old goat of a teacher. I’ve listened to Bach’s _Goldberg Variations_ often enough in my life to know what I’m talking about. And you’re still so young! Albert Zachary Fell, trust me, you’re a young man who is bound to go far. By Jove, I bet you’re going to be even better than Gould himself!…”

Hearing some noises of moved chairs and rustled paper coming from the classroom, Crowley hastened to hide behind the door of a storage room nearby, leaving it open just a crack so that he could peep out. Shortly after that, when the duo went out of the classroom, still chatting enthusiastically, he managed to catch a glimpse of the boy’s overjoyed face that was brightening the whole hallway as he strode next to his teacher.

Impossibly blonde hair (almost white, really – the colour of ivory piano keys), cotton-like and so blatantly soft that they could have been shaped with cloud swirls.

Lips stretching into a wonderful, highly contagious, open-mouthed smile as big as the moon, as memorable as a symphony.

Sparkling, smiling blue eyes, two blinding beacons shaming the golden light of a school afternoon coming in through the windows.

An angelic figure in a school uniform strolling peacefully, looking up to his teacher, both of them plainly rejoicing of what he – Albert – had just accomplished in that room……

Yes – he’d seen Albert for the first time as he was overjoyed. Crowley’s spectrum of human feelings would never be the same after that. He would aspire to chase that joy, grab it by the tail and make it his own, in the long run; and most importantly, he would have liked to see it painted again on Albert’s face, on his lips and in his eyes, like a double or triple rainbow on earth.

It’s incredible how many details the human eye can catch in the fraction of a second, when it’s interested enough, and how many more beautiful details are sweetly painfully desperately insanely etched into your mind if you have the constancy and the passion to look at the same thing – at the same face – over and over again, after that first taste…

Crowley jumped back to the present with a start. With a distinct vocal harmony, a second ABBA song had introduced itself from the stereo (oh God, what was it? A playlist? A best-of CD?). He hastened to put the music sheet back into place and checked that the Cherub hadn’t been watching; luckily, he was still getting dressed in the other room.

Then, in came the refrain of the new song…

_Look into his angel eyes –  
_ _One look and you’re hypnotized…_

…and fucking Hell, ABBA were really trying to drive him insane that day…

He tried (and he failed miserably) not to listen to the rest of the lyrics by turning his eyes to the terrace.

It was like a small Garden of Eden, full of colourful flowers and medium-sized potted plants casting some shadow here and there, both of exotic and of domestic kinds. Crowley even spotted some bonsai trees. There were lanterns hanging here and there. A porch swing close to a wall and a little wooden table with matching chairs in the middle completed the lovely picture. It was easy to imagine bees and butterflies as they visited the place in spring and summer.

Marvelling at the London view that Aziraphale had at his complete disposal from up there, Crowley couldn’t help wondering what would become of those plants and flowers, with the autumn approaching fast and apparently not enough space to take the frailer ones inside. Perhaps Aziraphale had a room where to store them? The idea sounded improbable, but...

Speak of the Cherub – he popped up again at the right time, perfectly dressed in that particular way of his, from his trademark white spats up to a three-piece beige suit with a tartan bowtie. He was incredibly anachronistic and all the more endearing, precisely because the whole look fit him like a glove. (Was that the gold chain of a pocket watch? Oh, for the love of-)

“Ready at last”, Aziraphale proclaimed, straightening his already straightened jacket and grabbing the remote to turn the stereo off (thank goodness for that). “Well, almost”, he amended then, and he opened one of the French windows, stepping out to the terrace. Under Crowley’s eyes (…he’d been staring, hadn’t he?) he bent behind a large pot containing a dwarf tree and emerged with a red carnation, putting it in his breast pocket. “All done.”

“Nice terrace”, Crowley said, showing off his outstanding entry for the ‘Understatement of the Week’ contest.

“Thank you. I’m no gardener, though. That’s all Madame Tracy – my housekeeper, you know. She takes care of that, along with a million other things in this house. Blessed lady.”

“I was just curious – where do you keep the plants in winter? I mean, some of these look like they can’t survive the cold, and-”

“Oh, yes, I have no room to keep them all inside. My studio could be warm enough, but it’s pretty much crammed all year long with books and music sheets… don’t get the wrong idea, Madame is an excellent housekeeper, but the studio is my small kingdom and I just don’t allow her to tidy a thing in there. I guess I should do it myself, one day, though, it’s becoming a room-sized chaos… Anyway, to answer your question, I just, uhm, uh. I just give them away.”

“You… _what_?”

“I give them away… you know… to botanical gardens, or parks. They take really good care of them, especially if they’re rare species. This way, everyone can enjoy them, too. You should see the botanists’ faces when they receive them – delighted, to say the least. They just make your heart swell.”

Crowley coughed – there was something stuck in his throat. “So you just, what- you just buy new plants every year?”

“Pretty much, yes.”

Roses bloomed again on Aziraphale’s cheeks. Crowley didn’t know how to recover from that shock at all – this man spent a small fortune on plants every year just to give them away freely to the citizenry some months later. He was so impressed that he realised he’d been gaping with some regrettable delay.

“In my defence”, Aziraphale went on, “I don’t give away _all_ of them, though. For instance, take this Scrumptious dwarf apple tree.” He nodded to the big pot that was covering the sight of the carnations. “It has been with me for, mmh… must be six years now? I should ask Tracy. Lovely little apples, it gives. I’ve become fond of it by now. I like to imagine I’m its personal guardian.” He smiled to himself, patting its proud little trunk.

“Plant bodyguard, mmh? I see”, was the most intelligent comment Crowley managed to make.

Aziraphale laughed, then he twittered, “Alright, now, let me just grab my coat”, going back inside with Crowley and closing the French windows. “Shall we go?”

\--------------------------

The ducks of St. James’s Park were particularly hungry that afternoon. Back home, before going to Aziraphale’s flat, Crowley had prepared a sack with some Tupperware boxes of sliced carrots and defrosted peas to feed them with. He was now throwing handfuls of them into the pond to a small crowd of birds, blatantly ignoring whatever ‘Do not feed the animals’ sign could have been there.

On the way to the park, they’d had some casual and awkward chitchat, small talk about the weather, discussions of plants and flowers and whatnot, but now things were starting to warm up properly and were becoming more interesting. Crowley wished he could find the most tactful way to approach the hot topic they were there for, wished he could just figure out the right way to ask what in his presence had made the Cherub so upset at the theatre. He was just waiting for his cue.

“How come I’ve never met you before?” Aziraphale asked. He’d stood by the pond for some time to watch the ducks eat; then he followed Crowley, sitting down beside him on the bench. “I mean, it wasn’t that big of a school, and you said we were schoolmates for a year and a half, more or less.”

“My style wasn’t so flashy, back then.”

Aziraphale giggled. “We had to wear uniforms…”

“Yeah”, Crowley smiled sadly in return. “I remember a certain degree of… conformity. _And_, I had no tattoos.”

“Beautiful, though, if I may say so.”

Behind his sunglasses, Crowley blinked.

“Th-the tattoos.”

“Oh! Oh, thanks.” He rubbed his right arm with his free hand. The head and tail of the two snakes were peeking out of the mid-sleeves of his shirt. “These two little girls have been with me since I was nineteen, more or less. They keep me company, in a way.”

He smiled to himself. What he’d just said could be read as a joke but, to some extent, it had been the truth in certain periods of his life. Especially after he’d been kicked out from that school. Especially, also, when the gigs with the Children had been getting fewer and fewer, while he still cared about the band and its members but he’d started to feel them drift away.

Aziraphale giggled again. He looked surprised… even interested, perhaps. “So they’re two girls, mmh?”

Crowley hadn’t realised he had actually called the snakes ‘girls’ until then. It was something he usually said as a joke when he was with people who knew him enough, like the Children or Anathema. He certainly hadn’t had any intention to say something like that to the Cherub.

He cringed internally. He was still feeling like a teenage weirdo whose god had decided, for some inexplicable reason, not only to answer him, but also to hang out with him. To get to know him.

He tried to play along and he cleared his throat. “Yeah, they’re, uh, my girls. So to speak.”

“Do they have a name?” Aziraphale’s eyes examined attentively the bit of Crowley’s arms where the tattoos were visible.

Feeling Aziraphale’s eyes on the crook of his arms was something stupidly intimate which Crowley wasn’t prepared for. The Cherub’s gaze was so focussed that Crowley suddenly thought, _He’s going to touch them_, and wished at the same time that Aziraphale did and didn’t do that.

“The one going upwards is Alpha, the one going downwards is Centauri. I helped creating them. Their design, I mean. Just went to the tattooist with this idea in mind.”

“They’re beautiful”, Aziraphale repeated. “I wonder if they hurt, though. They’re pretty big.”

Crowley smiled. “Nah, you’re safe. They’re very tame, won’t bite you.”

Aziraphale looked at him, bewildered, then he started giggling uncontrollably. Crowley watched him in surprise. Trying to calm himself down, Aziraphale explained, “Oh, how silly – I was talking about getting them tattooed on your arms. You know, with the needle and everything...”

Crowley’s face fell. “Oh- oh my God.”

Had he really been that stupid? He wasn’t one to misunderstand questions. He was smooth. He’d learnt to turn conversational bullshit and small talk into his natural habitat – even his escape route, sometimes. Was it really that difficult to talk to Aziraphale without wanting to be buried right there and then, under a nameless tombstone at the bottom of the sea, and be forgotten for eternity?

Or perhaps he just needed to calm the fuck down in the first place and take it easy. He had to remember that, all in all, Aziraphale, too, was a human being. (He hadn’t been feeling such a mess in a long time, honestly. Of course it had to happen with the Cherub.)

Aziraphale was still laughing, less than before. However, when he looked at Crowley’s face, he stopped immediately. “I’m sorry”, he said. “I didn’t want to… to make fun of you.”

Aziraphale’s face was earnest and his emotions seemed plain to read but, even though Crowley believed him, he felt his own hurt linger, hearing that laugh. His self-consciousness was still there, the concern of not being right or smart or worthy enough to deserve the friendship of a beautiful and talented person. The fear of being too different.

Crowley tucked a lock of red hair behind his ear and forced himself to say, “I admit it looked like it.” (_Honesty first._)

“Oh, no, no! I was only laughing because of the misunderstanding. I would never…” Aziraphale closed his mouth before finishing the sentence, looking away.

The whole thing was taking a strange direction. Worried about Aziraphale’s sudden silence, Crowley tried to stoke the meek fire of that conversation. “I’ll have you know that usually I’m not this awkward when making small talk”, he said, hitting what it felt like a new all-time low in his Awkward Remarks collection. He gave a mental sigh of relief when Aziraphale looked at him again, albeit shyly.

“I’ll guess. I imagine you were probably the most popular boy, back at school.”

It was Crowley’s turn to look away. He threw a senselessly big handful of peas into the pond; the ducks went crazy, flinging themselves closer, paddling quickly and trying to gulp down as much of the bounty as they could.

“On the contrary”, he said. “Don’t get me wrong, but the place was so full of stiff and arrogant people, I couldn’t stand it. You know – the kind of kids who have everything and feel entitled not to give a shit about anything. And most of the teachers… well. Don’t get me started. It was all so strict, so aseptic. Some days, it looked like a hospital to me – and I’ve already mentioned the conformity, haven’t I? That place was driving me insane.” Another handful of peas, this time mixed with carrots, ended into the water and on some of the ducks’ heads. “The dress code, for starters. I mean, look at me.”

He gestured at his clothes, his accessories. His lavender mid-sleeve T-shirt was certainly less flashy than what he’d worn the night of the concert, but it was combined with his trademark black skinny jeans and a remarkable pair of black combat boots, not to mention his bangles and rings.

“_This_ is what I am today, this is what I could’ve been even _then_ if they had let me, without all that tie-and-jacket bullshit they wanted us to wear all the time. Uh, no offence, since you’re always dressed – you know – bowtie-and-jacket…”

Aziraphale smiled. “None taken.”

“So, when I had enough – and that was pretty soon, actually –, I simply tried to break the rules whenever I could. I couldn’t be like this back then, I still hadn’t developed a conscious style. It was all a little toned down. Jesus, it was toned down _a lot_, actually.”

Half-sprawled on the bench, the Tupperware box still in one hand, he uncrossed his legs and then crossed them again, his foot swinging and bouncing up and down a couple of time in the process. Suddenly, he found the tip of his boot very interesting to look at.

“At first I would do it just because it was fun to break the rules, see how much could I push them without being told off. You know, I would come to class with my shirt untucked, or slightly unbuttoned; or my jacket flung over my shoulder, like it was the coolest thing; or my tie actually untied, just hanging loose around my neck like a stupid noodle, or used it as a belt.”

Crowley took a breath, watching the ducks as they merrily stuffed themselves with food. In the back of his mind, he marvelled at how easy it was to tell Aziraphale about it. About all of it. Over the years, he’d figured out how to not let people know about certain episodes of his past, all the while maintaining a cool attitude (at least, he hoped). To his surprise, that was the first time he’d started talking about part of his school experience to anyone other than Anathema, and it had taken him two years to get to that point with her.

It was only to be expected, perhaps; he was talking to Albert Zachary Fell, they’d been schoolmates, they were musicians, they had a lot in common to begin with. But he was also talking to Aziraphale, the Cherub, and his reaction was what concerned him the most. Crowley kept avoiding looking at his face, but he couldn’t keep himself from speaking.

“Then… I started to get angry. As I said, the place was just too strict for me, and also I noticed that a number of shy and nice students were genuinely in distress for having to wear formal clothes all the time. It’s something you notice when you, too, are inside it. Rebellious spirits needing just a little something to explode. I wanted to change those rules about the dress code, to help them. To… to free them, in a way. That’s when I started pushing too hard. Hell, once I took it so far that I even went to class dressed in one of my friend’s uniform. I mean… one of the girls’.” He rummaged inside the Tupperware, then he threw some carrot bits in the pond with a flick of the wrist and a tinkle of his bangles. “She was called Lilith, a rebel in the making even more than I was. We set that little idea up together. I suppose we wanted to make a statement of some sort, the bloody fools we were. I’ve always been, let’s say, a little lean, so I managed to wear her spare uniform without stretching or tearing anything.”

Aziraphale gasped. “I remember that story! It was, like, the talk of the town back then. Well, the talk of the school, at least… Only, I never realized it was _you_.”

Crowley felt his blood rush happily to his cheeks as he noticed Aziraphale’s tone. “Well, you probably didn’t get to see me dressed like that.” (_Ah, what am I saying? You just didn’t know me, back then, plain and simple…_) “They sent me to the headmaster’s office immediately. I admit I was very proud of what I’d done, at the time. I still am, in a way… but now, in retrospect, I think the whole plan was also ill-conceived and a little stupid. That was also the first time I put makeup on. Bit of a mess… I remembered I put the lipstick on _before_ wearing the shirt without unbuttoning it. It smudged all over. But I got better at makeup, out of school.”

“Do you wear that regularly, now?”

“Usually on my eyes, I do, when I feel like it.”

A brief silence followed. Aziraphale didn’t ask to see if he had makeup on; didn’t ask to see his eyes, which Crowley was surprised of, but also grateful for. He breathed out. Showing his eyes… That would have been something.

“As I was saying, I took this stuff very seriously, in my stupid teenage mind. One of the few things I took seriously while I was at school, actually…”

“What happened to Lilith?” Aziraphale asked.

“She resisted a little bit longer than I did, then was kicked out like me. Don’t know whatever happened to her after that. Anyway, I am _still_ proud about this whole business. I got suspended from classes for a whole week for doing it, and this only made me even angrier. Also, some of those bloody bullies started to…” He cleared his throat. He didn’t know if, when and where to stop, now that he had begun. “…started to call me names, and… Well, actually, I felt sorry for all of those students I was trying to help. I only made things worse for them, basically. I wanted to give them some freedom – don’t know what I was thinking - perhaps my ultimate goal was that of questioning all the rules of the school, subverting them, even. But I think I only made those poor kids more afraid of the consequences of, you know, rebelling and being truly themselves. So I stopped.”

Aziraphale looked at him in silence. He smiled like he always did – the corners of his mouth going upwards, his eyes still sad. Crowley looked at the pond, trying to hide his own sadness and everything else that went with it by throwing the last handful of peas and carrots to the insatiable ducks. He _knew_ that it was bound to end like this. So much for apologizing, for trying to understand why Aziraphale had been so upset.

“I’m sorry, dear”, Aziraphale said after that brief silence which somehow still managed to last too much. “You surely didn’t deserve any of that… It was so unfair. I think what you did was right, and you’ve been also very brave.”

Aziraphale went on talking some more, but Crowley lost the strength to say anything else for a while, busy as he was trying not to think of a word Aziraphale had just said.

_Dear. Dear. Dear…_

\--------------------------

“I don’t want to”, Warlock Dowling huffed for the sixteenth time that afternoon, some days later. For some sort of dramatic effect, the kid slid further down on his chair, threatening to fall on the floor.

Crowley was starting to lose his patience, but he tried not to show that. He’d always been good with kids but, Hell, Warlock was a tough one sometimes, and Crowley wasn’t exactly focussed that day.

“You’ll have to, I’m afraid”, he simply said, straightening the page of the solfège book on the music stand for him.

“It’s so _boring_. At least when I practice piano, I get to play something.”

“I know, I know. I had to study this stuff, too, at the music school. Still, it proved useful in the long run.”

“Oh, _please_, you’re always telling me that. I’m tired of listening to how you had to do this and that when you were young, ‘Mr. Crowley’.”

“Wha- Oi! It’s ‘when you were younger’. Not ‘young’. _Younger_. And I’ve already told you – don’t listen to your parents, just call me Anthony.”

“Can’t you even tell when I’m joking anymore? Man, you must be pretty messed up today.” Warlock made a low whistle. “Whatever. Solfège is a drag. Fuck that. I’m not studying it.”

“Language”, Crowley reprimanded him without trying too hard. From that point of view, Warlock was already hopeless, and Crowley was just flogging a dead horse. And who was him to scold that kid for that, anyway? He pinched the bridge of his nose out of exhaustion and breathed out. “Ok, ok, you know what? Fine, _you_ don’t study solfège. And _I_ won’t talk to your parents to let you play the drums or the guitar instead of the piano.”

“Hey! That’s not fair! You promised you’d try! This is called…”

“…blackmail, uh-uh. That’s right. You’d better behave or I’ll have to tell your mother, little hellspawn.”

“And who are you, my nanny?”

“Eh. Perhaps. You can never really know anyone, in this cruel world. Now be a good kid, Warlock. Sit up straight and let’s see if you practiced this _drag_ of a solfège this week. Do it for nanny.”

While Warlock, despite himself, did as his tutor said, Crowley began to space out very slowly.

_You can never really know anyone, in this cruel world._

Had he really just said that? He, Anthony Crowley, the hopelessly hopeful soul despite what he’d been through? Well, that was new.

Since an early age, Crowley had always relied quite successfully on his instinct to sort people into three categories: decent enough, so-and-so, and black plagues. Then, into his life had come a certain someone who had been in his own special category for many years. The Big Insoluble. He’d never really known him personally for many years; now that he had finally met him properly, despite his people-sorting sixth sense, Crowley still had trouble digging deep into him.

Crowley was an observer. With one look, he’d been able to grasp that he’d better beware Gabriel De Angelis. He’d seen the change in Lucifer’s attitude long before the other Cast Out Children realised what childish and quick-tempered path he was taking.

In many aspects, Aziraphale was still an unfathomable mystery.

He was, indeed, a good man, as good-hearted as he appeared to be in public. Of that, at least, Crowley was sure. He could read it in his face. Those eyes were incapable of lying.

But then? What was behind all that? What was at his core, what other facets did he have when he wasn’t playing or giving interviews? Crowley hadn’t the foggiest idea, and he still hadn’t formed one when they had talked – it had almost been a monologue about his school time, after all.

Crowley couldn’t rely on instinct alone, and Aziraphale hadn’t had the time (or the intention?) to say anything meaningful about himself, hadn’t mentioned his struggle at the theatre or anything related to that, and this was the biggest surprise. He’d just provided lovely sweet details about himself which nonetheless composed an unsatisfying still nature, colourful tiny dots that still had no apparent reason to huddle and gravitate together. Crowley had no coherent image, when looking at the big picture of him.

Even more surprisingly, given Crowley’s monologue which could have come off as a little off-putting, Aziraphale had called him to suggest a new… a new _meeting_ in the following days. (‘Meeting’ had sounded like a safe word, at first. Truth was, it was just starting to sound plainly stupid and dumb and needed to be replaced by another one as soon as possible.)

Seeing the phone screen light up and buzz with the incoming call, Crowley had been about to flatline right then and there in his own house, and he’d also almost dropped the phone into the sink. And when he’d heard Aziraphale mentioning, perhaps, another meeting like the one they’d had, Crowley had become excited by the prospect of getting to know a little more about him, with the right conversation and atmosphere, and of course a little bit of luck.

(“I’m choosing the place this time. Wear your best suit and forget about paying”, Aziraphale had said, inviting him for dinner to a restaurant which Crowley had googled like a madman immediately after the call. He’d coughed out a lung or two reading some reviews and looking at the pictures; the whole quick investigation had roughly translated to the fact that his best and _only_ suit was now parked at the dry cleaner in preparation for the event. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d worn a suit. He certainly hadn’t for his mother’s funeral… Must have been even before.)

On the other hand, some hidden force had led Crowley to open himself up to Aziraphale after a very short time. He felt as if he’d known him for half a lifetime (but he still didn’t, not in the way that he wished now).

The facts, Crowley reasoned, were quite simple in themselves – he’d talked, Aziraphale had listened. That was it. Listening to Crowley, Aziraphale hadn’t pulled faces or tried to slip in any kind of comment in any way. He had this feeling that, had he talked some more, Aziraphale would have listened to the rest of the story with the same amount of attention and silent understanding. Strange, how Crowley’s instinct had trusted him so blindly that many of his defences had been erased just like that, at the drop of a hat, with a downward snap of fingers…

“…Anthony? Anthony? Oi, Mr. Crowley?”

Crowley snapped back to reality stifling a gasp. He glared at Warlock from behind his sunglasses. “I told you, for the umpteenth time, _not_ to call me ‘Mr. Crowley’, Warlock.”

“I know.” The boy looked between worried and sheepish, like he’d been trying to catch Crowley’s attention for some time. “You’d kinda spaced out.”

Crowley twisted his mouth. “Yeah. You’re right… Got a lot on my mind, these days. Sorry.” He snorted, rubbing a hand on his own neck. “Maybe _I _am the one who is not prepared for this lesson, all in all, mmh?”

He ruffled Warlock’s hair to calm him a tad. Under his tough pre-teen appearance and the shows he liked to put on, that kid needed reassurance, from time to time. Sometimes, he reminded Crowley of himself at his age.

“Oh, ok.” Warlock’s vigilant eyes darted from his sunglasses to the music stand and back. “So, uhm. How did I go?”

“More than alright, you tiny devil.” He gave a fond smile. “Tell you what, Mini-stopheles. Let’s get these exercises over quickly and then we’ll go for a nice, big ice cream. How does that sound?”

“Sounds, uh, like blackmail? But yeah, I’m ok with that.”

Seeing Warlock smile again, Crowley laughed. “There’s my wicked little pupil.”

\--------------------------

**W. A. MOZART. _[Eine kleine Nachtmusik](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5hAuZJmJ0xU)_ in G Major, K. 525: IV. Rondo. Allegro.**

And so they hung out a second time, strangely.

"Welcome back, Mr. Fell. Let me take your coat."

"Oh, thank you, James. You're always most kind."

"I see you have company tonight, sir."

"Indeed I do. Please allow me to introduce Mr. Anthony Crowley."

"Uhm, yes, yes, how- how do you do."

"Mr. Fell, sir! We’ve been waiting for your comeback!”

“Why, thank you, Arthur – I’ve missed this place, missed you all. I’ve been on quite a long tour. I’m so glad to be here again.”

“…You seem to be on good terms with the staff. ‘Good’ being an understatement here.”

“Oh, dear, I am. I have many good acquaintances here. It’s something like a small paradise to me.”

The so-called dinner that Aziraphale insisted on _offering_ Crowley consisted in going to a very expensive restaurant and tea room located in a courtyard hidden away from the hustle and bustle of the city centre, just near the river, and indulging in one of the most (if not _the _most) spectacular teas Crowley had ever taken in his life.

Usually, Crowley enjoyed coffee shops more (and exceedingly sugary coffees in tow) but, as soon as he stepped inside, he was dazed by that fashionable, upper-class location painted in soft pink and gold tones, with big twisting columns in Diana Rose marble. Shiny and echoing floors half-covered by Persian rugs; velvet curtains on the walls; some small and round stained glass windows to balance the transparent and arched ones; light blue and discreetly frescoed ceilings to resemble a sunny sky. There were white-clothed tables big and small in a large room on the ground floor where a crowd of quiet, elegant people was chatting in undertones. Couples, mostly, but also trios and quartets of friends, a couple of larger groups and some sparse lone wolves.

As they were being led by a staff member towards a stairway, Crowley spotted some of the delicacies on those tables, staring at them bug-eyed (and, thank God, unnoticed). Sandwiches galore, some nice reinventions of the Victoria Sandwich that looked just like they were designed by Queen Victoria’s personal chef, the most delicious-looking scones he’d ever laid eyes on, and an overflow of fruity perfumes and flowery aromas coming from an army of fine bone china tea sets.

There seemed to be no free tables but, by some kind of miracle called ‘The Cherub is here’, one of them (the best one, in one of the private rooms upstairs) had promptly become available. From the way the staff kept talking among themselves and to Aziraphale about it, though, Crowley suspected that it had actually been free all along, as if that room was always kept ready for him.

From the waiters to the maître’d, everyone looked like they had just seen a star fall from the sky and land on their doorstep as he now knocked meekly and politely on their doors. People in uniform danced around Aziraphale and his guest like planets in a binary star system, the gravity pulling them in to say a quick ‘hello and welcome back’ and pushing them out again to do their jobs.

“Did you know that, just before the turn of the Twentieth century, this place used to be a discreet gentlemen’s club?” Aziraphale said as they followed one foot soldier of that army of people to the first floor, climbing up a large red-rugged stairway with a ridiculously ornate banister in ebony and gold foil.

On the steps behind him, surrounded by that unashamed display of refined luxury, Crowley arched an eyebrow. “Define ‘discreet’.”

From where he was, he couldn’t look at Aziraphale’s face for hints on his reaction, but there was a beat before the answer came. “Well. Let’s just say they allowed some… some kind of, uhm, entertainment which would have been otherwise illegal back then.”

Crowley, for lack of appropriate commentary, hummed with all the nonchalance he could.

No, really. Now that he knew that, just a little more than a century before, gentlemen went there to play cards, to read the newspaper with a nice glass of port, maybe to have their cock sucked or be merrily shagged in secrecy- I mean. He couldn’t decide whether to be worried or amused by the fact that, of all the topics Aziraphale could have possibly chosen to start a conversation, he had decided to share precisely that piece of information.

Eventually, Crowley arched his other eyebrow, too. “And you’re telling me this because…?”

“Oh, no reason in particular – it just popped into my mind. It’s a bit of trivia that I thought would be interesting to know about this lovely place. It makes you look at it from a whole new point of view.”

Well, guess what, it had done exactly that. With some amused annoyance, Crowley was starting to wonder whether the private dining rooms they were heading to had been, in fact, bedrooms in the old days.

“Ah! Here we are. Perfect. Thank you, Robert”, Aziraphale said when they reached a specific door along the first floor hallway. The waiter bowed with a quick smile, disappearing back down the stairs in less than five seconds. Crowley was starting to believe that Aziraphale really did know each and every person’s name in that place.

They sat inside. The room was rather small – there was just enough space for the table, two chairs and a stuffed bench jutting out from the wooden wall. There were three or four wall lights in the shape of vintage oil lamps scattered all around them providing just the right amount of fuzzy intimate glow – rather a contrast, coming from the twinkle and sparkle of the main room downstairs with its crystal chandeliers.

Just a few minutes after they’d sat down, another waiter (for the love of God – it looked like everyone were taking turns to have the chance to attend to Aziraphale even for thirty bloody seconds) came in to take their orders of teas and pastries and whatever the Hell else was on the menu. Crowley was so dazzled by the whole experience that he just gave up trying to feel properly hungry, trusting Aziraphale with the choices.

They didn’t just sit in silence anyway. To Crowley’s surprise, while they were being served, Aziraphale kept telling racy tales about that gentlemen’s club and its long-forgotten members with a shocking amount of tact, as if those tales were only old ladies’ gossip at the local knitting club. The more he went on, the more Crowley relaxed, eventually drinking up everything Aziraphale said and making snarky remarks of his own to balance his politeness.

The Earl of This who loved the Marquis of That… The stable boy that someone managed to slip inside one of the guest rooms… The Duke’s lover who also happened to be his butler… Aziraphale seemed to know everything about those vintage liaisons, and he was an excellent narrator, too.

Crowley had to admit that, despite having been initially caught by surprise, he was having a blast. The sharp contrast among Aziraphale’s subtle way of telling the sauciest parts, the quirky tales themselves and Crowley’s witticism was enough to entertain the both of them, giving birth to a verbal crossfire that tasted like a well-played counterpoint in a concert.

That was a part of Aziraphale that Crowley had not expected to find and it made the whole experience all the more interesting. From time to time it felt strange, like Aziraphale was maybe trying too hard. In the end, though, Crowley ended up being so caught up in the conversation, the food and the atmosphere that for some time he forgot what his own ultimate goal of the evening was and what he really wanted to ask him.

As they ate, they began to switch from those little snippets of stories and slices of past lives to some stretches of cosy silence in which they allowed themselves to be mesmerized by the spectacular view on the Thames. Out of the big wall-to-wall windows, boats with blue and yellow flickering fairy lights were parading to distant music, one after the other, down below on the water. Aziraphale and Crowley watched them sail on, happily and lazily.

That was, indeed, the best private room of the restaurant. The river kept flowing with sounds, the night was starry with laughter – everything seemed to conspire to tug at the corners of Crowley’s mouth and make him proud of his most senseless smile.

“Are you sure you’re not overdoing it?” Crowley teased after a while. “That one must be, what? Your fourth cup already?”

Aziraphale produced an unexpected smug smile. “No problem at all for me. I could live on tea, you know. If this has to be a dinner, I am determined to make the most of it.” He inhaled the aroma and took a sip of his rare blend of Earl Grey, fingers barely touching the cup as if he were holding the Holy Grail. Crowley had noticed with curiosity and amusement that, despite his enthusiasm for the most obscenely sweet pastries, Aziraphale took his tea without any milk or sugar.

“You really like eating, mmh?” Crowley asked, his ill-concealed amusement still bubbling in his voice as he watched Aziraphale pour himself some more bloody tea.

“Not _eating_ per se,” he said, moving on to pour the pale amber liquid into Crowley’s empty cup (“Here, just try it, dear, it’s superb”). “I just like good food. And if there’s good company on the side, well – all the better.”

The way in which Aziraphale delivered this remark – his head slightly tilted to the side, his graceful, soft and manicured hands still holding the teapot Just Like That, his sparkling big blue eyes, his sweet, beaming and slightly… yes, God, slightly _flirty_ smile – all of this made Crowley’s bowels tie themselves in extremely tight replicas of the Gordian knot.

_How damn sweet he is. Fascinating and utterly charming. I bet he doesn’t even realise how much. Unless…_

_…He’ll take your heart,  
_ _And you must pay the price…_

_Oh, yes, thank you, ABBA, your kind suggestions are always perfectly timed. Do me a favour, leave me be, mmh? Go to Hell and stay there a bit._

Aziraphale looked like a kind of untouchable geisha, bloody Hell – pouring tea, entertaining his guest, providing trivia like a tour guide in a museum, being all welcoming and warm and unbelievably perfect at almost everything he did.

_At times, it all feels somewhat out of place. Disturbing, even… as if he were posing, not entirely true…_

He kept watching as Aziraphale put the teapot down on the cooling rack with a light clink, and suddenly it dawned on him.

_He’s not entirely as spontaneous as I used to see him when we were schoolmates._

“So tell me, dear”, Aziraphale smirked, “how is it going with that electric guitar of yours?”

Crowley toyed a bit with his teaspoon, glad of being distracted from his musings. “Not bad.” In fact, it felt exactly like being burned in the first circle of Hell. “Mary and I have been in close contact with Mr. De Angelis these days. Turns out you were right. He really is a bloody perfectionist. I haven’t made him run away, though… yet. I guess that could count as a victory. He’s been calling, trying to-”

“Oh! Wait, does it- does she have a name, too? Your guitar?”

“Ah, yes… Yes, she does.” Crowley could have buried himself and his non-existent brain-to-mouth connection with him. What would his next trick be? Oh yes, why not, he’d be telling Aziraphale that he had a name for each and every one of his blasted potted plants, too-

“How lovely! I’m not an expert on rock music, though. I mainly stick to classical, as you can guess. And among modern artists, I do have some favourite bands, but I don’t explore much, unfortunately. I’m the couch potato of music exploration, I’m afraid.”

“Well, rock has many sub-genres, of course, like any kind of music. When I still played with my band – I was in a band, you know – I tried to encourage them to cover songs by Queen, for example, or the likes of them.”

“Oh! So, like… like bebop?”

…‘Bebop’. The name Queen next to the word _bebop_, oh God. It was a world was full of surprises, the one in which Crowley lived. He couldn’t help smiling.

“If you asked this whole restaurant, from the kitchen staff to the clients and the management and those merry waiters you know by first name, to define _Queen_, I am positive that not a single one of them would say the word ‘bebop’.”

Aziraphale laughed softly. “I’m sorry. Told you – I’m not an expert. What would you call it, then?”

“It’s glam rock – at least that’s what they played in the ‘70s. But they always had a style of their own, mixing opera and rockabilly and a ton of other genres, too. Anyway, I guess it doesn’t matter now. After Freddie Mercury’s death, you could say they all became immortal with him.”

“Indeed. I see you enjoy their music a great deal. Actually, I think I did happen to listen to some of their songs, now and then. Probably the most famous ones. I, too, enjoy listening to a couple of bands from the ‘70s, you know? I’m sure you’ve heard my ABBA playlist when you picked me up at my house.”

“Yeah.” Yeah, how to forget their hammering advice? “You could say that comparing their style to Queen is like talking about the devil and holy water, somehow. Totally different. But I can see the appeal.”

“They were amazing, with all their vocal harmonies. Galvanizing, that’s what they were. It was like listening to a small heavenly choir, don’t you think?”

“Absolutely.” Except when they gave you unwanted advice through someone’s stereo.

“And most of their songs are so happy, so uplifting. They’re such a joy to listen to.” Aziraphale smiled and made a wistful sigh, his gaze lost somewhere on the river.

There it was, finally – the cue Crowley had been hoping for.

He’d seen a crack in the wall – Aziraphale talking a little about himself and his music tastes. Crowley took the bait like a damned trout in a pond, even jumping out of the water to catch it properly, the miserable fool he was. “Well, I’m sure there are lots of classical pieces that must give you the same feeling. You must know them all like the back of your hand. To be honest, as a fan, I’ve always wondered which your favourites are…”

He shut his mouth with an unwanted click that reverberated annoyingly through his teeth.

There was something new in Aziraphale, something in the way he was breathing (way too slowly), in the way he’d stopped wiggling to and fro (way too obviously), that told him to just stop whatever the Hell he was going on about.

“Don’t… don’t get me wrong”, Aziraphale said, filling the gap in the conversation before Crowley could have the brilliant idea of patching the hull in the sinking ship of his own ramblings with a buzz saw. “I enjoy classical music a lot, of course, but… I can’t say there are many pieces that have stayed with me over the years, so to speak. When you get to play the most challenging ones day after day, during practice – let alone on stage – I mean, it’s a miracle if you don’t just… end up hating them all en masse.” He laughed softly. He didn’t sound convinced.

They were getting there. Tentatively, Crowley tried to take a step further. “Was it like that also when you studied them at school?”

“Well… Maybe- I don’t- Honestly, so many years have gone by that I don’t think I can remember.” He fidgeted a little, taking a sandwich in his hand and immediately putting it down again. “Why the school?”

Et voilà! A 180° turn in the conversation, and Crowley was already walking into the trap again.

Talking to Aziraphale just came easy to him. Natural. Even though his goal had been the complete opposite – making Aziraphale explain something about him to possibly help him a bit –, there he was – in need to, and about to share something more about himself.

‘Honesty first’ – that was Crowley’s hypocritical motto. Hypocritical, because hard as he tried, there was so much that he should have said about his past, so much unimportant and meaningless shit that he was not, so very _not_ willing to admit even to himself, let alone to the person in front of him. A billion of tiny shreds of memories that made up the person he’d become, a million of reasons to conceal parts of him under a flashy appearance whenever he could. Speaking of certain topics had always seemed the worst of ideas, and Crowley avoided doing so very carefully with 99% of the human population. Yet…

Yet – there was still that 1% left. Anathema, albeit rarely, and…

“There’s something you should know”, Crowley said.

“I’m all ears”, the Cherub said with a smile so bright and encouraging that would have made Doris Day retire at the beginning of her career after just one quick glance at it.

“When we were in school together, I… have to admit I’ve known you since then, somehow. I used to do this thing… and I’m ashamed to admit it, really but… truth is, when you practiced playing the piano in the afternoons, at school… I was there. I mean, not in the classroom, of course – I… I used to listen to you play. I would stay in the hallway, would hide behind the storage room door when you went out and away. I…”

Crowley couldn’t bring himself to watch Aziraphale in the face, not even with his sunglasses on, but he knew that Aziraphale was watching him in silence. Listening.

Dear God, what had come over him, urging him to open his mouth? Why was he talking? Did Aziraphale really need to know about this now? What was that, Crowley’s last will before being buried in unholy ground? He wasn’t drunk, all he’d done was drinking some bloody tea, and yet his tongue refused to stop. _It’s for the best_, he heard the emotional side of his mind talk to him. _Tell him something about you, and maybe he’ll tell something about himself in return._

“…I ditched many classes to do that. I was fascinated by the music you played, I guess… or the way you played. I have to admit that it still inspires me a great deal nowadays.”

_Oh, good. __Why don’t you add some more?_, his rational side butted in with the perfect timing of an astronomical clock. _Are you also going to tell him about your stupid composition, just to spice things up?_

Among Crowley’s outer and inner ramblings, Aziraphale had been quiet, with an unfathomable expression on his face. He still didn’t say a word for some time after Crowley trailed off with a pathetic “I hope I haven’t upset you with this. I swear, I only meant well.”

_Please, say something. Say anything. Speak…_

Then, at last – “Oh! No, not at all, dear. I’m… flattered, really.” Aziraphale smiled. Because of course, of course he would. _That_ smile, the sweet, melancholic one. The crack had been fixed, the wall was still intact. The Cherub was still there.

“Goodness. How surprising”, Aziraphale went on as he buttered a scone. “I’ve had a fan all along, then, even before becoming famous.”

As much as he tried to make sense of these remarks, Crowley couldn’t. As a matter of fact, he’d expected a completely different reaction – confusion, suspicion, maybe even rejection. After all, Crowley should have known. He was used to rejection. It would’ve been fine, really. With his sunglasses and the fact that he was, you know, the way he was – he understood. It was not easy to trust him. It was the price to pay for shielding himself with the cool and aloof attitude he tried to wear together with his clothes.

Instead, among all the possible reactions, he’d been given a smile. A solar wind-like fucking smile. Mentally exhausted, he put the whole matter aside.

_Food for future thought…_

On the way back, they took a brief stroll in the London streets. The vibrant lights coming from the houses, the restaurants and the theatres slowly projected a warm parade of rainbow colours on their faces as they made for the taxi rank, where Aziraphale was supposed to get his ride home.

“I’ll give you a lift, anywhere you want to go”, Crowley had offered, in a voice that had sounded polite and inexplicable, touching without pushing; but Aziraphale had declined, just as politely.

It was probably for the best. Crowley would have liked to offer him a ride in a vintage car; a Bentley, perhaps, to match Aziraphale’s style and to indulge in his own secret dream of owning one. Instead, he just had a certified piece of junk which he used to drive around only from time to time, also considering the fact that he had a reckless driving style when he wasn’t completely relaxed. That is, most of the time.

“I’m glad we went out tonight”, Aziraphale said anyway, burying his neck in the collar of his double-breasted cream camel coat. A cute and well-fed barn owl. He pulled the lapels close with one hand, despite the mid-October evening weather being still rather pleasantly warm. It allowed just a sting of the upcoming Halloween cold to slip in. “I enjoyed myself tremendously.”

The embracing, glimmering light coming from the window next to them was enveloping Aziraphale, twinkling on his ring, his coat buttons, his cufflinks in tiny fleeting sparks. He looked like a small human bonfire – calm, soft, welcoming, bursting with sudden pops of vitality. Crowley, in his half-mesmerized, half-satisfied state, started to wonder if, looking at him for too long, that warm and lulling bonfire could suddenly surge up and scorch him under the odd gusts of wind.

He smiled behind his sunglasses. “So did I.”

_This is it, then_, he suddenly thought. Without knowing what to expect next, Crowley just stood there, waiting for Aziraphale to bid him goodnight and goodbye. Maybe he wouldn’t do that, though. Not yet.

_If only I could take a picture of this moment. If only I could be satisfied with what I’ve had._

“We could…” Aziraphale cleared his throat. “We could stay at my place, if you like. I-I mean, next time.”

Crowley’s brain-to-mouth connection went suddenly on strike, leaving him gaping.

…_What?_

He tried to replay that sentence in his head. The word ‘goodnight’ hadn’t been included anywhere in there. Nor had ‘goodbye’.

“Uhm… Crowley? Are you alright?”

…_What did he just say?_

“Oh dear, i-it’s fine if you don’t want to, though, really, I don’t mind, and-”

“So you’re… you’re inviting me. To your place. Next time.” Parroting Aziraphale’s words surely didn’t look like Crowley was alright, but that’s what he could manage.

“Yes, I… I suppose I did. If you want to, I don’t know, have a drink. Talk a little.” Aziraphale breathed out a laugh. “I suppose that’s what people do, from time to time. Don’t they? When the weather gets a tad colder. Or just when they feel like it. You know. You go to a… friend’s house… and spend a quiet evening there.”

Crowley smiled. He’d never imagined that anyone could possibly look so cute while being even just a little flustered, or rambling, or both. Not even Aziraphale. “I’d like that. Very much.”

\--------------------------

_Hi there, this is Anathema. If you hear this message, you know what to do. Do it with style._

“Anja, it’s me. Pick up. I know you can, it’s your day off. Witches’ Sabbath at the third possible rendezvous, I repeat, Witches’ Sabbath at the-”

“Oh! AJ! It’s _you_! You should have told me, you tall pint of a demon, I would have answered straight away.”

“What kind of a remark is that? How should I have told you it was me? I’m _phoning_ you now, Hell’s sake.”

“Anyway, why are you summoning a Witches’ Sabbath? What’s the emergency _this time_, you dramatic disaster of a dearie?”

“I’ll tell you when we meet, it’d be too long to explain on the phone.”

“Umph, always with the suspense… Fine, as you like. Besides, what was the third rendezvous again? The usual Starbucks, the bird bench at Hyde Park, or in front of the Tate?”

“For Heaven’s- It’s our usual Starbucks, Anja…”

“Oh, right. Let me just jump out of the bathtub and I’ll meet you there in half an hour.”

“Be sure to put some clothes on, first.”

“Ah-ah, very funny, lanky boy. See you later.”

\--------------------------

There they were, Anathema and Crowley, at their Starbucks of choice, after years of friendship built on the first selling tickets to the latter. Best friends for good or bad, in sickness and in health. There they were, having a so-called Witches’ Sabbath, because they always enjoyed being a pair of mismatched drama queens, naming an emergency meeting among friends using a stupid code name just for the fun of it. (Also because of Anathema’s own wood witch vibe and Crowley’s demonic saunter. Those were only retroactive reasons, though, glued in place when they had felt the need to explain that name choice to themselves. The real one was just that they liked it.)

They were that kind of friends who are just there in case anything should happen to each other, but don’t feel the need to text every day. A weird kind of best friends, perhaps, fire-alarm style, but best friends nonetheless.

“So, what’s the hurry? What happened? Having dragged me out of my beauty bath, it’d better be good, or saucy. Or both.” Anathema took a slurp of her Frappuccino. She was one of the very few people who was allowed to call Crowley by his name, going for AJ very often.

“Anja, nobody _dragged_ you here, you just answered my standard Witches’ Sabbath call.”

“I see no difference. The quiet of my beauty bath has been disturbed and I demand compensation in good stories.” Another slurp, then she looked at her drink with scorn. “Crap, I can’t remember why I insist on trying to drink this thing every time.”

“Ok, ok, be it your way. It’s just…” (How to break the news to her?) “Well. Would you believe me if I told you that I’ve met the Cherub?”

“No”, she answered, unfazed.

A beat.

“Anja… you believe all sort of impossible things… would it be too much if I asked you to believe this one, too?”

Another beat.

“Anthony Crowley, Jr., you must be fucking kidding me.” Ah! Bingo. She was starting to take him seriously.

“I swear on everything that is sacred to you and me on this God-forsaken planet – I’m not kidding anybody. It’s the truth.”

“Well, if that’s the case, I’m sorry. It still comes off as unbelievable. Well, very hard to believe, at least.”

He ran a hand through his hair. “I know, right? And I already went out with him twice…”

“Wha-? When-? You had two _dates_ with him alrea-? No, ok, hold your horses, I’m… I’m starting to be a little mad at you. Couldn’t you have just warned your best friend of what has been going on in these, I don’t know, two weeks of your life?”

“First of all, they weren’t _dates_”, Crowley spluttered before she could go on talking, even though he knew that she was only teasing. “And yes, I know, I’m sorry – it’s pretty big and I should’ve told you, but I’ve had a lot on my mind these days… That’s what I wanted to discuss with you, actually.”

“Ok, sure. Before we dwell into the serious Witches’ Sabbath stuff, though, tell me. I want to know everything. What is he like in person? Is he as nice as he appears on TV?”

Crowley sprawled himself on the stuffed armchair in a pose that managed to defy several laws of physics and logic, but was comfortable nonetheless. "First you’ll have to tell me where exactly you were left at."

"You called me to say that Gabriel De Angelis wanted to be your agent. You were a little uncertain whether to accept or not, talked about an appointment you had with him. Then you just... vanished into thin air. Until today."

"Oh, right."

"I’ll admit I’ve been curious and I was starting to be slightly worried… but from your silence I thought there were going to be bad news and I wanted to leave you to decide when to tell me. I know you prefer to break that kind of news yourself when you feel you’re ready. I certainly wasn’t expecting… this." She made a pensive face. "It's still weird, in a way."

"In my defence, it all happened faster than I expected…"

Half an hour later, Anathema looked a little overwhelmed. "So, to sum up – De Angelis is your agent, you're dating the Cherub-"

"’m not _dating_ him, Anja!"

"-_and_ you don't know what to think of him. If you two might get along for real." She made a low whistle – well, at least she tried, since Anathema couldn’t whistle at all. "You’ll have to admit that it’s a lot to take in."

“Yes, no, I…” Crowley cleared his throat. Stating the obvious felt like merrily pouring petrol on a house on fire, but whatever, it was _Anja_, it was his best friend that he was talking to. “I like him. I do. I’ve been liking him for years-”

“Yes, we’ve already covered that part many times.”

“The real problem is, well…”

“Well?”

“I mean- I'm not sure he isn't pretending all the time.”

“‘Pretending’ what?”

“To be on a stage. To be the Cherub also in real life.”

“Oh.” Then, when she realised what he meant, “Oh!”

“I wanted to apologise to him for having interrupted his rehearsal and for making him so upset, even if unintentionally. I wanted to try to help him somehow. He looked… troubled. To say the least. And what happens, instead? We go to St. James’s to feed the fucking ducks and I tell him about that little revolution I attempted with Lilith at school.”

“Chr- Wh- _Already_?”

“Yeah. Already. Don't know what got into me, but he was there, and he just… You know. He listened…”

“May I remind you it took you two whole years to tell me about-" 

“_And then_, we met again yesterday evening, we had tea for dinner, I repeat, tea for dinner in this super fancy place where everybody knew him, you should have seen it, Anja, it was surreal, and he paid for my dinner for Christ's sake, for no fucking reason at all, of course I didn’t want to, can you imagine?, but he did, and we ended up talking about our tastes in music and my guitar and how I would listen to him play every other afternoon at school-”

“God. You must be out of your mind.” 

“When am I not?”

“Don't tell me, don't fucking _tell me_ you decided to show him your eyes!"

“_Anja_! Don't be _ridiculous_, it's… I didn't.” Crowley knew that Anathema was exaggerating again, but… still. He had only shown her his eyes once, when he’d explained why he’d chosen to be constantly wearing sunglasses. It had been a long afternoon, that one. “I'm not sure how he could react, if I might creep him out-”

“Ok, ok, fine. You know I wouldn't make a big deal out of your condition, if I were you, but… I understand. Given, you know, what was school time for you. And what came after."

“Thanks.”

There was a pensive silence. A slurp.

Crowley knew perfectly well that they had opposite views on the matter of his eyes. As a friend – best friend – she’d tried everything to make him come to terms with reality and make him accept that part of him. And yet… Old habits. Self preservation. Fear of judgment. Past traumas. Call them any way you like, some things keep gnawing at your foot like a bear trap while you, the bloody fool who always decides to go hiking alone, limp around in the woods. You try to shake it off, but its teeth sink in deeper somehow.

Thirty-something and he still had problems with himself. (Still the school, always the school. It always came back, the bastard, didn’t it?) By thirty, one should be expected to have his own shit sorted out. ‘Accept yourself’, they said. But no, even in the best moments there was still that little voice that downplayed him, mocked him, snickered at him.

Better put shades on, then.

“_If you can't beat them, join them_”, Queen would say. Join them, the many shades of loneliness hiding inside yourself. Put some sunglasses on. Yes, better if they also come with side shades. Shut yourself completely in. Lock the world outside of you. And to deceive them all, be the drama queen. Shroud yourself in mystery, close the open book that otherwise you would be. Become the unreachable one, the cool and aloof one. Try to, at least.

Crowley curled up in his armchair. “So… what's your advice, then?”

“Advice?”

“Well, I summoned a bloody Witches’ Sabbath, didn't I?”

“Oh, yes… right.” She sighed, putting her Frappuccino on the coffee table. “Well. If you feel he's not honest with you, you could always just… stop seeing him and still be his fan anyway?” 

“But I can't just leave him behind, now, Anja. You haven't seen him then, at the theatre. He was almost… almost panicked.”

“Then I’m afraid you’re going to have to shake him a bit, pull him out of his, uhm, comfort zone. That is, if we can say that pretending all the time to be your stage persona is a comfort zone… which I hardly believe.”

“You mean, I’d have to be frank with him?”

“Yes, if you want to put it like that. A sort of shock treatment, since nothing else has worked so far, apparently.”

“I don’t think it’s a good idea-”

“Why are you always asking for advice when you have already made up your mind?”

“_I was saying_, I don’t think it’s a good idea, but I’ll think about it.”

“It’s the only one I can come up with. Probably it’s going to carry some stormy weather in its wake, but, well- got any better ideas? Or one single, better idea?”

“I don’t.”

“That… was a rhetorical question, you know.” But she said that with a smile.

Crowley snorted, more than laughed. Deep down, he was thankful for having a friend, a best friend, someone to whom you could always say “We got each other’s back – I’ll watch yours and you’ll watch mine”.

It was a small luck, but still a pretty good dose of luck. Something told him that some people were not, in fact, as lucky as he was.

\--------------------------

_ **F. CHOPIN. [Fantaisie-Impromptu](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=75x6DncZDgI)** _ ** in C-sharp minor, Op. posth. 66.**

And so they hung out a third time, definitely.

_Some day, when I'm awfully low,  
_ _When the world is cold,  
_ _I will feel a glow just thinking of you  
_ _And the way you look tonight._

Frank Sinatra had been setting the mood from the record player for some time and Crowley, sitting on Aziraphale’s incredibly comfortable sofa (who knew that vintage furniture could be like that?), had a tumbler of whiskey in his hand. Aziraphale was stepping in time to some retro dance (because of course, what could Crowley have expected from a person who didn’t even own a cellphone or who was always dressed like it was still 1953?).

‘Lindy hop’, Aziraphale had said that it was called. He’d said to be able to dance it at a basic-to-intermediate level but, from Crowley’s point of view, he could have very well bragged to be a pro dancer and Crowley would have believed him, so little he knew about lindy hop and swing and dancing in general.

“So, you can dance”, Crowley half-asked, half-asserted with a smile, and he took a sip of whiskey. Aziraphale, after his third drink, looked relaxed, like he was having a total blast. Truth be told, he seemed to hold his liquor pretty well – a surprising fact, actually, which could have required some more investigation later. Later.

“I’ve told you, dear, I’m afraid my skills are very limited. I haven’t taken a class in… oh, must be years, literally.” He kept counting, “Rock, step, triple step…” and moved to the music, stepping gracefully on Sinatra’s velvet voice. “I can only dance basic lindy hop and a tiny bit of solo jazz, things like those.”

“Looks fun, actually. But I don’t think I could learn. I just… flail around, most of the time. I try to have fun, I’ve got my style but, you know – I’m not even that good.”

“Oh, this is easier than it looks like, really! Swing music gets in your soul after a while, and- rock, step, triple step, triple step…”

Crowley watched Aziraphale dance by himself, as he pretended to have a partner and shuffled to and fro in the openings where the furniture allowed. How much of his constant grace was true? How much was calculated and a ploy?

Besides, to be perfectly frank, the more Crowley was close to Aziraphale, the more he was becoming fascinated by him in a dangerously fond way, different by the idol-like fashion of all those years. Crowley hoped, not without feeling guilty about it, that the alcohol would help him grasp something more of that person triple-stepping in front of him.

“When did you learn, since you’re always so busy?” Crowley finished his drink and put the tumbler on the coffee table.

“I took classes when I was still at the beginning of my career”, Aziraphale explained, his tongue sticking slightly out in concentration. “I was less busy than I am now, but I had to drop out after only, I’d say, a year because… because of… Oh! Oh, golly gee!”

Aziraphale started twirling around in a goofier way, having stepped out of time.

_He’s had a little too much to drink…_

Crowley was about to stand up to steady him, but Aziraphale waved his hand in dismissal, looking at his own feet with a perplexed expression like they were someone else’s.

“I feel the room spinning, you know? Just, just a little… I must be out of practice, what do you think?” He lost his balance, laughed and landed with a small ‘puff!’ on the sofa next to Crowley, leaning dangerously towards him.

Meanwhile, Frank Sinatra seemed not to care in the least about this whole situation, going on singing through the record player. The song was quickly over anyway, with the vinyl disc still spinning silently, crackling from time to time.

“My dear”, Aziraphale murmured (Crowley had to gulp in order to keep his brain working), “I must thank you, really – I… I haven’t had so much fun in… in _years_…” He sighed contentedly, closing his eyes.

Crowley thought back to what Anathema had told him during their Witches’ Sabbath. That was the cue he’d been waiting for, another crack in the wall, and Aziraphale, with the help of some alcohol in his blood, was offering it to him on a silver plate.

Even though he didn’t like the idea of taking advantage of such a situation, he decided to try it the harsh way. Now or never.

_And if it all goes to the dogs, Miss Anja Device, you and I are going to have a little talk._

“Speaking of, can I ask you a question?”

Aziraphale batted his ridiculously long eyelashes while sporting the cutest of smiles, his cheeks flushed from dancing and drinking. (Damn. Was he being that cute on purpose? Or was Crowley a little tipsy, too?) “Sure… fire away.”

“Do you… go out often? I-I mean. Like we’ve been doing lately.” Hell, he had had just one drink, certainly not as much as Aziraphale. He could have found a better phrasing.

Aziraphale’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “What do you mean?”

“Well, ah… It’s a lot to say that- that you haven’t had so much fun in years… Don’t you think?”

Aziraphale averted his gaze, looking uncertain. His smile gone, he tried to stand up, but he failed (he _was _drunk to a certain degree, then) and instead he settled for shuffling away from Crowley on the sofa. “That’s… an unusual question.”

Crowley realized only too late that, with his sunglasses still on and his expression suddenly serious, he probably had seemed very intimidating to Aziraphale, who was in a vulnerable state.

He attempted a last-minute patch-up. “I know, I… I was just wondering, that’s all.” Well. Nice try.

“If- if you really want to know… no, I don’t go out that often”, Aziraphale said. “Why did you ask? Was it not enough to enjoy each other’s company for once?”

_For once? We’ve met for a grand total of four times and we’ve been doing just that… What is he going on about all of a sudden?_

A slightly drunken angelic pianist, the person who had been Crowley’s idol from the very first time he’d seen him, was now staring at him wide-eyed and very still. He looked frighteningly calm, ready to smite Crowley down in the blink of an eye.

"Has it ever occurred to you", Aziraphale said out of the blue, sitting up with his back very straight despite his three generous whiskies, "that every time we’ve met, never have you taken your sunglasses off?"

Oh. Oh, that was it, then. He should have guessed. Kickback. Backlash. Complete, utter kick-back-lash, dear God.

The fact that Aziraphale was still using that murmuring tone of voice, as if they were just sharing secrets in front of a fireplace, only made everything worse, worse than if he’d started to sound irritated or annoyed or to shout in anger.

"Y-yes, it _has_ occurred to me. In fact, it is utterly intentional-"

"Oh, _really_. Why?"

"It's… it's a long story." That kind of ready-made sentences seemed to be the safer option, despite perhaps not being the right one. "Besides, I’m sorry, but… it's personal business… I don't think I'm ready to-"

"Exactly. Neither am I. And yet, I haven't pressured you into anything. Am I wrong?"

"No, no, absolutely not, but-"

Aziraphale stared at him with a strange, tight-lipped expression. "Then, if you don't mind, I'd rather you did the same."

Crowley was appalled. Why, why was he being so bitter all of a sudden? It had only taken a question and some alcohol to start the fire. It couldn’t all be due to drunkenness alone.

Looking back at those meetings they’d had, as exciting as they’d been, they looked a little absurd, to say the least. Aziraphale had accepted to go out with him, he’d listened to Crowley as he started opening up for no particular reason other than that he felt inexplicably at ease with him, and all the while, he’d always avoided going too deep into his own experience and his own self.

Was Aziraphale really like that when his defences were down? Was this what Aziraphale had become, or was this only a result of the drinks he’d had? Was it due to the question Crowley had asked, or was it something else? Or, even worse, had Aziraphale been like that all along? Had Crowley only clung to his perfect memory of him, honed by years of photo shoots and interviews and seeing him play?

Everything was turning worryingly scary, for having started simply with some booze and a dance demonstration.

Yet. Scary as it was, it was also time to clear the damn air. He’d made his bed, he would lie in it.

“For starters,” Crowley said, not without furrowing his brows, “I’d like to remind you that, when this whole thing started, we went out to apologize to each other about what happened in the theatre. I don’t know, maybe there has never been the need for that in the first place, but we both agreed on doing that, at least implicitly. Yet, we haven’t talk about it at all, not even once.”

Silence. (It was like having a staring contest with the sun. You’d have a chance of coming out on top only if you were, by chance, the moon.)

“I can’t say I’m not confused by… by you. I mean, you, avoiding going too far with my questions, last time at the tea room – and it would have still been alright, somehow, I’d have understood. But then you just get at me for doing something that you, too, have been doing all along. I think… we have both been a little suspicious of each other without noticing.”

Still Aziraphale didn’t retort.

The lyrics of _Angel Eyes_, which Crowley’s instinct had tried and failed to ignore upon hearing them on the stereo, came back to torment him treacherously with a whole new layer of meaning.

_You’ll think you’re in Paradise,  
_ _and one day, you’ll find out he wears a disguise.  
_ _Don’t look too deep into those angel eyes.  
_ _Oh, no no no no…_

‘Oh, no, no’, indeed…

Crowley was looking into the coal engine of a steamboat, suddenly open in front of him who, in turn, had only been looking for a bit of warmth. You could never guess how big and how scorching hot the fire was from the outside, when the firebox door was closed, until you got to be eye to eye with the flame, and Crowley had just tried to open that heavy door.

"Look, it's true, I’ve always had my sunglasses on… but I _did_ open up to you. I told you a lot of things about myself that I could have spared you. I could have made up a totally cool and flamboyant past about me at the music school. It could have been easy. In fact, I was not cool nor flamboyant. But I did not hide that from you, even when you assumed I were popular while we were talking at St. James's. I opened up a bit because I felt I could trust you instinctively. Because that's how I still feel. No schemes, no secret plots."

Aziraphale was still looking at him, but Crowley couldn't see rage in his eyes anymore.

He watched as shame crept in, tainting the flaming blue of his eyes little by little, oil in a mountain lake, and he immediately regretted talking like that, even though he felt it was the only way of solving the matter.

“We’ve only really known each other for something like three weeks. You can’t just… expect me to go too far without you making some… some steps in turn.”

He tried to shuffle closer. Aziraphale looked away, but this time he didn’t move.

"I just don't understand", Crowley went on, using what he hoped to be his most soothing voice, "why you insist on going out with me if you are not interested in being on equal grounds. From my point of view, you get all sort of sides from me, while you- well. I realised something. Do you know what I see most of the time, when you talk to me?"

He tried to make eye contact with him despite his sunglasses. Not an easy task… but Aziraphale, probably because of Crowley’s silence, slowly turned his head to face him. His eyes were heavy, with a pinkish watercolour hue in the sclerae. They stang.

"I see the Cherub,” Crowley said. “I don’t see _you_.”

There was another silence, louder, this time, in which Crowley became too much aware of Aziraphale’s and his own breathing. In the background, the stylus of the record player kept making the disc crackle rhythmically, over and over and over, and over and over.

“There are still many things you don't know about me, and I'm still not ready to… show you my face as it is. My point is, I'll be even less willing to do that if I don't know anything about _you_. The real you, so to speak."

"I… I'm sorry", Aziraphale croaked at last. “For… that. The alcohol must have gone to my head.”

Well… that was a start. Not the one Crowley had been hoping for, but beggars can’t be choosers.

Besides, alcohol to his head or not, the pink in Aziraphale’s eyes was getting dangerously stronger, stinging Crowley with renewed purpose. Crowley awarded himself the first prize for Least Comforting Speech and hoped, prayed, begged some supernatural entity that Aziraphale just wouldn’t cry.

"I’m saying all of this because, yes – I've been a fan of yours since I first saw you. But at this point, it would be stupid to say that I don’t enjoy your company beyond… beyond your music, and… and that I would also like to be _friends_ with you. If you still want to.”

His eyes going wide, Aziraphale emitted a soft sound, like he was inhaling and exhaling at the same time. He gulped.

“I… would like that. Yes – yes, I _want_ to.”

And then it didn’t matter anymore if, just a handful of minutes before, Crowley had felt that he’d stared at Aziraphale’s hidden face. Right then, his instinct was just telling him that he’d made it, whatever he’d been doing. Aziraphale was smiling again.

He wished he could take Aziraphale’s hand in his own – hold it, brush it, provide reassurance and support to seal the new friendship. But between his wish and the action there was his fear of overstepping, of pushing too hard once again. So he just smiled.

Suddenly, Aziraphale seemed to realise something. "You know, this new brief tour that I’ll be doing soon… In retrospect, it’s happening at the right time, don’t you think? It will give me time to think about, well… about what you said."

Aziraphale ran a hand through his own hair, quietly laughing, and Crowley wished, for the sake of his own poor old heart, that he hadn’t done that.

Oddly enough, Aziraphale did not look particularly drunk now, as if he’d sobered up all of a sudden. He did still look vulnerable, but nothing compared to the silent fury or the pink sadness he’d had a glimpse of before.

"We could… We could take it back from here, when I come back. Something like a fresh start. I could give you a call once I’m back in town… Perhaps one day we could… I don’t know. Go for a picnic, later on in spring. Dine at the Ritz…"

"Yeah."

A strange, distant pensiveness unfurled above Crowley.

_And here we are again. Brief sentences. Clumsy conversations. Eyeless smiles from both sides._

\--------------------------

**CODA**

**L. V. BEETHOVEN. _[Moonlight Sonata](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nT7_IZPHHb0)_** _ ** – Piano Sonata No** _ ** _. _ ** _ **14 in C-sharp minor,** _ ** "Quasi una fantasia", Op. 27, No. 2. I. Adagio sostenuto.**

Crowley turned the round handle of the door, entering his tiny, cramped flat.

He threw his jacket, the keys and the wallet on the sofa bed already spread out and in perfect condition: tucked in, clean and smooth, as if nobody had ever slept there. (False, of course. Crowley enjoyed sleeping, a lot, but he also liked order and tidiness.)

Crowley had always sort of hated that flat. He’d always wanted one of those big open space thingies covering a whole floor of a skyscraper, all black and white, clean, neat, polished, very tidy and very empty. However, being a musician didn’t always pay as much as it did for the Cherub.

He always used his money carefully to pay for very specific things: the rent, the bills, new additions to his wardrobe and scene costumes, the piece of junk that was his car (when he needed to) and music sheets. This left him with just enough to live with, to provide for his long-term savings (which apparently were going to be obliterated in some months’ time by De Angelis’s fees, anyway), and to buy the tickets for the Cherub’s concerts, whenever he came back to the area from his constant tours.

At least Crowley had already booked and paid his hours at the rehearsal studio until Christmas. Heaven and Hell knew that he was going to need them, now that he had an agent called Gabriel De Angelis.

Crowley took his glasses off.

He stepped on the balcony, which was probably the only good thing of his crappy little homey hellhole. One big room that included living room, kitchen and bedroom; a decent bathroom and a whole room dedicated only to wardrobes and clothes, makeup and accessories, where he also kept his guitar, some music sheets, his music textbooks, the collection of photos and articles about the Cherub and the tin box with his plectra collection. That was it.

The balcony was not as large nor as beautiful as the Cherub's terrace, obviously. It was all chipped grey tiles, with an iron railing just high enough to prevent reckless climbs and suicidal thoughts. Nonetheless, it was spacious enough to host some potted plants; ferns, mainly, and many cacti and succulents.

He felt a special bond with his plants, even though he would have never admitted that in order not to sound weirder than he already was. Sometimes he talked to them. Most of the time he shouted, to be honest, with great displeasure of Crowley’s neighbours (not that he cared). All in all, though, it looked like the plants knew that the shouting and the pressure he put on them were his perverted way of showing them care and affection, because they grew and flourished. He’d named them all, like he always did to any object or unnamed living thing that he was particularly fond of. His favourite was probably Deaky, a tiny round cactus which had no intention to grow or to die. It regularly sported an even tinier fuchsia flower on its top. Flashy and a little prickly, but with a soft heart. It reminded Crowley of himself.

Leaning on the iron railing, his bangles glistening in the dim orange light coming from downtown, chiming faintly in the mid-October breeze, Crowley started what promised to be a sleepless night spent pondering and looking at the skyline lights. (“_I can’t shake off my city blues_”, the Sweets would have sung to him if they had been there, “_every way I turn, I lose_.” He could almost hear their riffs echoing in his ear.)

He rolled one of his rings with the thumb of the same hand. Thinking back to the past weeks, Crowley was simply puzzled about Aziraphale.

Sometimes, he looked like he had no barrier, no filter, no threshold to protect himself from the evils of the world. Crowley was even beginning to suspect that Aziraphale would initially trust _anybody_ from the start, realising his mistakes only too late. That could be the reason why he’d been stuck with that asshole of De Angelis as agent for so many years.

Yet, it was obvious that he couldn't possibly be so naïve. Crowley had witnessed his silver-white faith in people, like that of a child, but he’d also seen an equally silver-white fury buried deep inside him and trying to burst out.

Aziraphale had agreed to meet him not once, not twice, but three whole times – him, Crowley, a complete stranger. Aziraphale was the one who had been trusting him enough to invite him repeatedly into his house. He'd offered him his whisky. He'd paid for dinner. He'd called him ‘dear’ when he'd opened up a little about the school years they had done together. And Crowley still hadn't found the courage to take his sunglasses off.

It was a problem. If he wanted to show his support to Aziraphale, he'd have to reveal that piece of himself eventually. Showing his eyes didn't seem a big deal, but it was. He didn't want to be called a freak by anybody anymore. Especially by him. (Fuck. The mere thought of the Cherub looking at him in the eyes had been his worst nightmare since he’d started wearing those bloody sunglasses, even if he still hadn’t met him.)

However, the epiphany he’d had about Aziraphale being another person underneath while, from time to time, still being unable to hide his own feelings and emotions was making Crowley consider something he’d never thought about doing before. Without his sunglasses, he’d be unmasked. Even naked.

Then there was the _other _problem. On a closer look, Aziraphale looked like he were constantly acting. Was he really trying to pretend all the time to be something he wasn’t? How could Crowley know? He couldn’t ask him, of course. He’d tried. It didn’t go well. Thinking about it, he was also scared to see what could be under that mask. Not because he was actually scared of what he’d find, but because it could have meant losing him, if he weren’t too careful.

Running away (the easy solution that Anathema had suggested) was simply impossible. It would have killed Crowley to leave Aziraphale behind, _him_ of all people, now that he had come so close to him after all those years.

It was an impasse. If only Gabriel De Angelis hadn’t found him in the rehearsal studio that day…

_'Of all the agents in all of the towns in all the world, I had to meet yours…'_

He smirked at the quote. It felt weirdly appropriate.

_'Play it, Albert. Play _Goldberg Variation n.4_._'

Fuck. What a fucking, fucking mess.

He realised that he craved for a cigarette. He would have been smoking already by now, if smoke weren't dangerous for a singer’s voice. Whenever there were moments like that, he would always crave for a smoke, but he’d never give in.

He’d been a smoker for some time, back when he was more stupid and he thought about cigarettes as something cool. After some months, he’d failed to hit some falsetto notes during a rehearsal with the Cast Out Children. He got scared. That single episode, together with the prospect of not being able to sing just as high anymore, gave him enough willpower to be able to quit.

Sometimes, though, the need lingered on. That said, he wasn’t even sure where he kept the emergency packet he’d last bought years ago, before quitting; and chewing on liquorice or sucking mints wouldn’t work this time… That’s how it always is, right? You never really quit. You just morph your addiction to something into an addiction to something else. And what if that addiction becomes a person?

The whole thing was so damn frustrating. Yet, Crowley didn’t want to give up. It was still too early to throw in the towel, whatever the Hell he’d been doing. But what to do next? How to try to peel all layers away from Aziraphale like an apple, how to revert him to his real self if Crowley didn’t even know what his real self was? How to make his eyes smile again like Albert’s eyes did?

_All these years, it’s like I’ve been worshipping an image of him which has never been true. I’ve made it myself, with my bare hands, but in the end it’s just not what I had in mind._

Crowley was thirty-one. He should’ve known better by then; yet, there he was. He had been admiring the Cherub; he had got to know Aziraphale, somehow; but ultimately, Albert Zachary Fell was still unknown to him. He was concealed, unpredictable and scary. He’d only known Albert by the way he played when they were in school, by the joy that he heard in his voice from outside the door whenever he outdid himself time and again as he rehearsed. The fact that Crowley couldn’t find that joyous person anymore, the bells chiming in his laughter, the baby sparrows ready to take flight from the blue nests of his eyes – all of those missing things were scary as much as Crowley was feeling useless. (Perhaps he’d only been making things even worse, just like he had unwillingly done to his fellow students, those shy rebels in their uncomfortable uniforms.)

One way or another, he would have to dig deep, deep underground, breaking the crust and the mantle to reach Albert’s boiling core. But he had only his bare hands to dig, and it felt like there was a thick wall of thorns dividing him from the soil.

Out of pure frustration, he started to hit the iron rail with the palms of his hands. Hard, while he was at it, just to prove an inexplicable and unnecessary point to himself.

A hit for his frustration about wanting to help people, but not knowing how.

A hit because the person he wanted to help, of all the billions of people in the mad world, had to be precisely Albert Zachary Fell, goddamit.

A hit because he didn’t know how to help him sort out the apparent mess of his life.

A hit because he didn’t know how to sort out the mess that threatened to become _his own_ life, should he go too far and dig too deep.

A hit for not being able to let go of his fucking sunglasses, another one for their sod of an agent, another one for himself, the impulsive fucker, for not knowing better and launching himself headlong into impossible rescue missions…

A hit, and a hit, and a hit, and another, and another, and another, again and again and more and more, before all he could do was to close his eyes, grasping that damned iron railing with both hands and stifling a scream of helplessness. He gritted his teeth. His hands were aching, but not as much as his head was pulsing, not as much as his heart was being sliced in thin layers at the speed of light. It was a heart roaring in confusion, a wild animal inside the dim-lit big top of his chest, chasing its tail in its cage made of ribs, prodded too much and from too many different directions.

Little by little, his chest started to heave more and more slowly, until Crowley managed to open his eyes to look again at the skyline. As the madding circus crowd in his ribcage packed up to come back at a later date, he was left only with himself, his breath, and his thrice-damned eyes watching the city as it glimmered in front of him.

After a while, Crowley shivered. If that night had to be sleepless, at least he could spend it lying on the bed.

He stared into the night at the city lights for a few minutes more, devoid of all the thoughts that had shaken him until just a few moments before. “_I'll walk the streets at night to be hidden by the city lights_”, he heard the Sweet sing in his mind, the lyrics echoing on the skyscrapers in the distance. His thoughts bounced from window to window up to the sky and made their way in a trail of darkness among the stars.

With a sigh, Crowley turned around and went back inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome, kind readers, to a new episode of “This fic isn’t angsty, it just wants to be written that way” (to be read à la Jessica Rabbit).  
I have already witnessed realism fly out of the window while writing the first two chapters; now the story and the characters are trying to veer towards unknown territories and I, the writer, don’t understand where they could lead and how I am going to fit into this mess the scenes I have already planned from the start. I guess the fic itself will tell me what to do as I write. This is true also for the rating (will there be an E? Who knows) and the total number of chapters. I am updating it to 7, which was my initial aim, but something tells me I’ll have to update them again in the future.  
[This](https://www.pinterest.it/pin/458382068296014458/) is Aziraphale’s telephone. It will make a comeback, so I thought it would be useful to have a visual reference.  
I’m seriously considering putting a playlist together for this fic, at this point. I’m referencing so many different songs and classical pieces that it would be easier to have them all gathered in one place in order to listen to them and get in the mood of the story. But… little me is really a big stegosaurus when technology comes into play – suffice to say, I don’t even have a Spotify account. We’ll see.  
In this chapter we have ABBA’s [Andante, Andante](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CS-30pO94lo) and [Angel Eyes](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GHddJnNo_BQ), and also the Sweet’s [Love Is Like Oxygen](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TRpY9KctG8o). (I love this song so much it may make a future comeback. It’s simply… wahoo. It sounds and feels like your heart is being made atomic and blasted off to space, among the stars. A true experience if there ever was one, for me.)  
Bach’s Goldberg Variations are a set of 30 classical pieces for harpsichord. They can also be played on the piano, but some of them get even more challenging doing so. You can listen to the theme, all the variations and the final aria played on harpsichord [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cFI_s93ltiA); or you can also listen to them played on the piano [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=15ezpwCHtJs).  
Crowley rehearses to Queen's [Killer Queen](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2ZBtPf7FOoM) and to T-Rex's [20th Century Boy](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sQw3LBl2eEU).  
The song which Aziraphale is dancing to is [The Way You Look Tonight](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1gab2Vuz2Nk), Frank Sinatra’s cover. However, I definitely prefer the original version, much slower and sung by the one and only Fred Astaire.  
I inserted lindy hop as a homage to @[sparklingjoy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparklingjoy) (I was sorry to discover your Tumblr account has been deactivated :( ), who suggested that Aziraphale might be into swing music and dances as early as when this fic was only a bullet point list on my Tumblr. Out of a pure coincidence, I’ve begun taking lindy hop classes in real life. It can become quite a wild dance! Aziraphale has only learnt the basics, like me.  
Again, thank you for your patience and for sticking with me in this herculean project (as you have noticed, I have no update schedule whatsoever). Most importantly, though, I hope you enjoyed everything so far. :)  
This work is based on my own Musicians AU headcanon list which I posted on Tumblr. You can find info looking for the tags #Ineffable Musicians or #Ineffable Musicians AU.  
I've written and proofread this work by myself and I'm not an English native speaker, so if you notice any mistakes and monsters roaming among the words, please warn me and I'll be happy to fix them!  
My tags are a mess, so if you notice some warning that should be there, please do tell me.  
Come say hello on Tumblr, the nickname is always @[saretton](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/saretton) . :)


	4. Challenging the Doors of Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley usually didn’t remember the dreams he had at night, and he was grateful that this, in fact, wasn’t a dream. He was wide awake. He could remember everything about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After almost 5 months, we're here again! Please enjoy this 26k-words long monster chapter.  
It's going to be one hell of a ride.
> 
> Like in the previous chapter, there are links to the various pieces of classical music used to set the tone of specific scenes. Feel free to check them out if you're curious!
> 
> CW: bullying, physical assault, homophobia and homophobic language.

Little birds were chirping happily in that crisp and clear November morning, warbling and playing a merry melody by ear among the potted plants of the terrace. Down below, at street level, the wind provided a sort of counterpoint, combing the sparse foliage of the trees in the park, ruffling the leaves that had survived the first round of autumnal sacrifices to the mother earth.

The sun, a white ball of coldish silence, cast its melancholic light here and there – on the tiles, the walls, the windows, the pots, the plants – and on Aziraphale who, once again, was saying goodbye to his terrace-shaped private Eden. He kept telling himself that he wouldn’t be long – he would come back from the tour around December, and he was already used to saying brisk, heartfelt au-revoirs to his little patch of Heaven. He'd been doing that for years on repeat. Yet, every time he had to leave, he felt a foolish, self-inflicted pain, as if he'd just torn one of his own limbs away and he'd planted it there, next to the Scrumptious dwarf apple tree.

He took a deep breath in, then out. Maybe, doing so, the anxiety of leaving home for such a long time would go away like the air from his lungs. That was the easiest method he could think of to calm down. At times it worked, other times it didn’t; this was a so-and-so time. Just enough to pull himself together.

“Bertie, dear, I think your taxi is waiting downstairs.”

That was Tracy, of course, reminding him that his time there was over. He really didn’t know how he could have managed without her. His home, his safe space would be in even safer hands during the tour.

It took them both a couple of journeys in the lift to move all of Aziraphale’s luggage at ground floor and then into the car boot. Every time he embarked in one of his travels, Tracy would give him two goodbye kisses on his cheeks accompanied by a teary-eyed “Safe travel, dear, mind how you go”; and so she did this time as well.

In the taxi, Aziraphale turned to watch his house disappear in the distance from the car window. He was to meet with Gabriel at Victoria Station and from there they’d catch the train to Bournemouth.

For some surprisingly annoying reason, this time Aziraphale did not feel relieved at the prospect of Gabriel travelling with him. He couldn’t exactly pinpoint why, but for the first time in his career, he wished he were alone doing his job. No one to help him or correct him or plan everything ahead for him. Just alone. He didn’t want to be _lonely_ like he’d been a month or so before, before meeting Crowley. Just… alone. Just himself.

Gabriel would stay with him for some days during the tour to check that everything was alright (_To ensure I don’t have another breakdown_, Aziraphale’s mind chimed in rather unhelpfully, making him rub his face with one hand).

In the following weeks, like he did during every tour, Gabriel would leave periodically to go wherever the Devil he had to meet with his other clients, or to make arrangements for them.

Aziraphale wondered whether this was something that agents did regularly, or if it was something typical of Gabriel. He surprised himself realising that, despite all those years, he still didn’t know much of what was or wasn’t expected by an agent, after all. Still, he trusted Gabriel blindly; having been his agent for so many years, he’d always been so bloody _right_ in everything he said or decided.

Aziraphale pursed his lips and frowned. Perhaps he was just too tired. He’d had those three weeks of… rest, before going off to this new tour, but he definitely hadn’t rested properly. All those days practicing and practicing… Thank goodness for those moments with Crowley.

Crowley…

Now, Crowley was someone who completely confused him. He’d felt something, when he’d come to introduce himself in his dressing room. He’d looked a little uncomfortable and flustered and rambling and absolutely endearing, just like Aziraphale supposed any fan would look.

But then he’d mentioned that they had been schoolmates.

Aziraphale wasn’t quite sure of what had happened. He didn’t believe in destiny – he believed in many other things, like kindness for kindness’s sake and wishing upon shooting stars and back-breaking work and sacrifices that repay you in the end and yes, deep down, he even still believed in Santa Claus.

There had been just something about Crowley, though, some aura of goodness and gentleness and frailty despite that flashy paradise-bird attire, that had made Aziraphale think, _Granny Dot, he’s the one you’ve sent to me, isn’t he?_ And with a quick glance upwards, as if to ask for her reassurance, he’d decided that yes, she was still watching over him; and yes, perhaps that prayer he’d made in the quietness of his room had been loud enough to make something happen. She or some other force had led Crowley specifically to him.

Those three weeks had probably been the best he’d had in a very long time. In years, perhaps. Waiting for each of those meetings with Crowley to come had been like living a fairytale. He would sit at his piano to practice, and all the while, his mind would take him to the future, to the expectation of what would happen.

Had it been easy? No. Oh, no. This ‘trusting each other’ game wasn’t easy at all. You had to _earn_ someone’s trust, not only expect it from a potential friend. For some reason, he’d taken for granted the fact that people trusted him. He had spent so much time trying to be gentle and kind and polite and quietly brilliant in every occasion that he had apparently forgotten how he actually was when most of his filters were off.

God knew how much he’d felt embarrassed some nights before, when he’d been dangerously tipsy (to say the least) and he’d said those horrible things to Crowley. He didn’t remember ever being like _that_ in front of anyone. That night, as soon as he’d realised what he’d said, he’d been really afraid of losing Crowley, losing the gift Granny had given him, snapping the thin thread that was starting to sew them together before it could become a rope. He’d been so lucky to realise just in time what was coming out of his mouth.

At stake was something more than just a simple friendship – as if it weren’t enough already for him. He could feel it. Crowley wasn’t just a handsome man.

A _very_ handsome man, frankly speaking. Those auburn hair, those freckles that adorned his arms and face like stardust, his prominent nose framed by a couple of refined cheekbones, thin lips like pink ribbons, a long neck to climb like a stairway, lithe arms like tree branches encased in the slithering touch of two snakes tattooed in ink; and gentle, long-fingered hands that any pianist could have killed for, and narrow hips that swayed hypnotically following some hidden music like a metronome, to and fro, to and fro… to and fro…

He uncrossed his legs and crossed them again.

He’d tell himself that he was being ridiculous in his descriptions if he didn’t feel that it was all so absolutely true. There was still the missing detail of his eyes, but he had learned not to push that particular button. Not yet, at least. This didn’t stop him from driving himself mad trying to imagine what Crowley’s eyes would look.

_I just have to be patient._

Aziraphale was many things, but he was not naive, nor a complete fool. He’d known for a long time that he liked men – ever since he was attending the music school. However, at the ripe age of thirty-one, Aziraphale had never been kissed, nor had he done… well, anything else with anyone. That was probably the price of fame and career for someone like him. And precisely because he was not a fool, he knew all the blunt technicalities. He’d read things, mostly. Watched other things, more rarely. He just lacked practice. And experience.

The fact didn’t bother him much – he didn’t feel any kind of social pressure about doing anything; it was just… something deeper and more personal. Like a longing. He felt a piece was missing in the puzzle of his life – the other half of the apple. He hadn’t dared wish for something so extreme and overwhelming as love when he’d prayed Granny Dot that night. He’d just wished for a true, warm, deep friendship. And it would have been enough.

But that didn’t change the fact that the puzzle still wasn’t complete. He’d been waiting all his life for a moment of epiphany, for that instant when he would turn around and find a person that made him think, _Is this you? Please, let it be you. I’m tired and cold and I’ve been lonely. And I just want to go home with you._

Aziraphale was sure that Crowley was way more than just an ever-growing physical attraction from his side, more than those flamboyant fashion choices he made. He could sense a whole ocean of layers beneath him, layers that he couldn’t possibly fathom in such a short time and that went way deeper than the darkness of his sunglasses. He didn’t want to miss the chance to discover them, to finally touch the bottom of the well, the shape of the clouds and the surface of the moon.

The taxi was now approaching Victoria Station. Aziraphale recognized the neighbourhood, the streets, the shops. He really didn’t want to go. But he had to.

_I wish it were all already over. I could sleep for a century and some, then. Go for a walk, or at the club. I could... _He surprised himself thinking, _I could call Crowley._

He remembered the things he’d told Crowley after their last evening spent together.

_‘Something like a fresh start. I could give you a call once I’m back in town…’ _

He could still hear himself talk. He wasn’t one to suggest calling people, if it wasn’t to make a reservation to one of his favourite restaurants. He’d had so few people to call, anyway. But that was before.

_‘Perhaps one day we could… I don’t know. Go for a picnic, later on in spring. Dine at the Ritz…’_

At that, he grimaced. Could anyone sound more pathetic? To suggest two opposite things such as those. Crowley didn’t seem like the kind of guy to like either of them, but Aziraphale couldn’t know until they’d tried. He’d taken Crowley to his favourite restaurant and it had looked like he’d appreciated it. _And_\- and Crowley had agreed to keep in touch. That was already a miracle in its own right.

Elvis Presley’s soul was singing one of his hits on the radio. Aziraphale tried to listen, raising his head only to lower it again on his forearm against the window with a quiet moan as the taxi pulled up next to the curb near the station.

_Why can’t you see what you’re doing to me  
When you don’t believe a word I’m saying?  
We can’t go on together with suspicious minds,  
and we can’t build our dreams on suspicious minds…_

_Funny_, Aziraphale thought, getting off the taxi with a sigh, _how music chases you and speaks to you all the time. Especially when you want it the least._

\----------------------

Cursing loudly and regretting the miserable day he’d decided to buy a fucking smartphone, wishing he were just a solitary bearded hermit in Scotland instead, Crowley capitulated and accepted the umpteenth incoming call.

“Dagon,_ what_?”

“Hello, Crowley! You finally picked up!”

“Yeah, more like I gave in – it’s the tenth bloody time in a row you’re trying to call me.”

“Mmh, grumpy as ever, I see.”

“_What_ do you want, Dagon?”

“Well, uh. Can we… meet?”

“No.”

“No? Not even if I say ‘pretty please’?”

“No.”

“Oh, come on. Do it for me. _Pretty please_. And don’t hang up,” she added hastily.

Damn. Dagon had always been Crowley’s favourite, despite the fact that she wasn’t technically a friend. Or was she? She _was _calling him, after all, and in a friendly way. They were talking.

Crowley bit his lip. “Just why in Heaven and Hell should I agree to meet you?”

“We just wanted to talk to you about something. In person.”

“‘We’? Who’s ‘we’?”

“It will be just the two of us, I swear. Beelzebub and me. Oh, ah, well – three. You’ll be there, too, of course.”

“Ok, ok, ok. What does Beelzebub have to do with any of this, now?”

“Crowley, it’s hard to admit it, but, well. We are, uh. Totally fucked up. Beyond repair.”

“What- what did I just hear?” Crowley had to sit down on his sofa-bed at that, with a wicked grin on his face. Now _that_ was interesting. “Please, repeat.”

“We are _fucked up_, alright. Y’see, we-”

“Allow me to gloat just for a nanosecond.”

“Uhm, ok.

“Thank you. AH! _Told you _it would end up like this.”

“Well, then-”

“And now, g’bye. So long. Farewell. Ciao.”

“No, wait, please, hear me out. We’d like to meet you, just once, just to see if you can help us jot down some ideas.”

“You’re on a sinking ship and you want me to come back on board with you? Just in time to drown in good company?”

“No, no – we just thought we three could, uhm. Form a band. Another one. One of our own.”

“Ok… Ok.” Crowley was sincerely torn between the idea of hanging up mercilessly and the one of having fun hearing where Dagon was going. “So you want to form a new band.”

“Yes.”

“You. Beelzebub. And me.”

“Yes.”

“And you want me back.”

“Yes?”

“Jesus…”

“Well, to be honest, we’d like to make it with or without you. I mean. Beelzebub had this idea…”

“Dagon, Dagon, hold on. You know you’ve always been my favourite among the Children, the one I was more inclined to consider a friend.”

“Oh, yes, I know. And I’m very glad and flattered.”

“Great. In light of this, would you please care to explain what the _fuck_ is going on exactly? What about Hastur and Ligur and Lucifer? Weren’t he and Beelzebub together? What the-”

“Ah, yes, well, y’see, let me explain. In the beginning there were-”

“Ok, ok, Dag, enough, you bard of the millennium – give me that phone, I’ll do the talking. Oi, Crowley? You still there?”

_‘Bard of the millennium’?_ Crowley stared at his phone screen for some seconds before answering. Had that really been Beelzebub’s voice? “Unfortunately yes, I’m here.”

“I don’t have time for your sarcasm. Just meet us tomorrow for coffee, 4pm. You decide where, just let us know. Text us. If you don’t, remember that we know where you live.”

“Oh, don’t worry, Crowley! She means no harm, we’ll just come to your place to visit y-”

And the call ended just like that, as strangely as it had begun.

\----------------------

“Let’s make it quick”, Crowley spat out, once the three of them had met at the café of his choice. (It wasn’t _The_ Starbucks, of course; that was specifically for him and Anja.)

“Would you please at least have a seat?” Dagon groaned as if she had been repeating that sentence for an ungodly number of times already, instead of being the first thing she said upon seeing Crowley.

_Well, _Crowley thought,_ we’ve exchanged much worse greetings before. There may be hope._

He slumped down on a chair, if only to appease Dagon. “So what’s this thing of the new band and the Children falling apart?”

Dagon moved a lock of her unbelievably straight hair away from her eyes, tucking it behind an ear. Crowley knew what that meant; she was suddenly a little uncomfortable. “That’s just it, actually. We realised we couldn’t go on,” she said with a shrug. “No-one was ever playing anything at all anymore.”

“Admit it, Crowley,” Beelzebub said from her chair next to Dagon’s, with one arm lazily thrown over the seatback. “The band was through long before you quit. You didn't do anything special. You just coaxed us into facing the truth.”

At that, Crowley felt his eyebrows twist strangely above his sunglasses. Of course Beez wouldn't admit that he'd been right from the beginning. It was typical of her, that trying to manipulate people and reality to suit her vision.

A part of Crowley was glad that he'd been the first to go away; another one still longed for the early times of the band, when he was out of school and he felt like he’d found a purpose in his life.

“And about Lucifer,” Beez went on, “well – it was something like a mercy killing.”

Dagon nodded solemnly in agreement, and Crowley didn't dare ask what _exactly_ had happened and what _exactly_ they meant with ‘mercy killing’. Once again, it was all nebulous with Beelzebub and her relationships; this time, though, Dagon seemed to know something about the recent developments. That was peculiar. Dagon, the meek keyboardist, always avoiding conflicts and with her head among the clouds.

“So it was you who broke up with him,” Crowley told Beelzebub to keep the conversation going somehow (well, he _was_ there to talk with them, wasn't he?), as if that hadn't been obvious from the start. You couldn't possibly do anything to Beez. If anything, _she_ was the one doing things to _you_. Including, and especially, breaking up with you.

“Yep,” Dagon confirmed in Beelzebub's place, gloating with a pride that was unusual, coming from her. “She positively smashed him. Defeated him.”

Beelzebub's mouth twisted and she looked away. _Well, well, well_, Crowley thought, watching that peculiar interaction unfolding in front of him just like an ornithologist would have spied on the courting dance of two lyrebirds.

For a moment he forgot his problems, shoving them unceremoniously in a temporary closet. Watching the beginning of _something_ bud between them was fascinating. Despite everything, nothing could stop Crowley from being secretly charmed by this kind of human interaction. People were fascinating, if you stopped to watch them carefully as they danced around each other like this…

The closet full of his problems burst open again, and, to his embarrassment, he wondered whether what had been going on between him and Aziraphale during those three weeks was something similar. He hoped so, but the thought also scared him a little. Why was he having that kind of thoughts already? Aziraphale wanted to be friends with him. Friends. And-

_You bloody idiot, here you go again. Always getting ahead of yourself. If only you could calm the fuck down for five minutes straight-_

“We don't know what Lucifer's doing now,” Dagon said, still speaking on behalf of Beelzebub. “He’s tried to come back to Bee-Bee more than once, but she’s always turned him down after their breakup.”

Crowley arched an eyebrow. _‘Bee-Bee’? What the actual fuck?_ “Serves him right, if you're asking me,” he said instead. “I suppose Hastur and Ligur stuck with him, then.”

“They did,” Dagon confirmed. “We’re already betting on how short they’re going to last.”

“Lucifer's not the point here,” Beelzebub said after a pensive silence in which she kept looking away. “We are here to make you that offer.”

“Which I suppose I can't refuse,” Crowley said.

“You’d have every right to,” said Dagon. God, Crowley had forgotten just how much Dagon couldn't grasp sarcasm sometimes.

“As you know, we would like to form a new band with you.”

“Listen, girls,” Crowley said, passing his hands though his hair in a useless effort to be patient, “I have three good reasons to turn you down. I don't think that's a good idea. I don't want to. And,” he sighed, “I have an agent now.”

“Oh. Mr. Crowley has an _agent_, now. And who would it be, pray?” Beelzebub sneered. “Someone worthy of you? Someone important?"

Crowley decided to ignore the ‘worthy of you’ part, for the sake of his own sanity. “Well, actually, yes. He's Gabriel De Angelis.”

A heavy silence fell on the table. Crowley wished they’d laughed, instead of giving him that reaction.

“Yes. Yes, he _is_ my agent.”

“_That _Gabriel De Angelis? No way.” Dagon was gaping like a salmon at the fish market.

“No, no, of course he is, Crowley," Beelzebub butted in, eerily calm. “The exact same amount that you're as straight as spaghetti.”

Crowley tried to and failed at elegantly hiding that he was choking on air. “What does the fact that I’m gay have to do with…” He flailed his hands around before deciding to use them to rub his temples. “Why is it always so difficult to explain this to anybody?”

_And why is it so difficult to gain anybody’s trust?_

"Besides, if you want a fourth reason why I won’t say yes,” he went on, without waiting for an answer to his question, “I have other stuff on my mind these days.”

Dagon and Beelzebub exchanged a brief look, then turned to face him again. “_Who_ is on your mind, exactly?” Dagon inquired, all wiggly eyebrows.

“I never said anything about him being a who,” Crowley said, realising only too late his Freudian slip and biting his tongue. ‘_Him’. You idiot_.

“‘Him’?” Dagon squealed, delighted, doing acrobatic circus numbers with her eyebrows and forehead. “Are you perhaps talking about that pianist of yours? Mmmh?”

“It’s – it’s not what you-”

“Please, spare me the excuses. We don’t need any of that,” Bee said, with a face that looked like an overture to a giant and never-ending headache. “You were already enough of a groupie for that pianist of yours when you were still in the band. I guess it’s only gotten worse.”

It was a miracle that Crowley didn’t choke on air (again).

“How did you know it was him?” Crowley asked, a little sceptical. It was true – he had mentioned that he was going to this and that concert of the Cherub, but that had happened before the band started to fall to pieces. Apparently, they still remembered.

…Oh God. Had he really sounded desperate for him already?

“Hey. He’s something like a VIP,” Dagon said. “It doesn’t take a degree in rocket science to have a little of general knowledge. We’re not that ignorant, you know.” There was a hint of sadness in her remark that made Crowley feel guilty. He hadn’t meant it like that, and he hoped that Dagon wasn’t too offended.

“Besides,” Beelzebub went on, “I don’t even know how you can like him. Have you watched him play? – Yeah, bet you did your bit of ogling. Anyway,” she said with the same flat tone before Crowley could react in any way other than opening his mouth, “he’s just- so… mmh. Stiff. He has technique to spare, that’s undeniable. But what’s underneath? Where’s the feeling? Where is it?” She breathed air out of her nose in a mocking way, as if to drive a fly away from her face. “I’m just surprised that a drama queen like you hadn’t noticed yet. There’s plenty of drama opportunities when playing a grand fucking piano, reduced to zero when _he_ plays.”

Crowley, who was trying to cover his whole face in the palms of his hands, suddenly lit up. Beez’s words were ringing in his ear like the whistle of a steam locomotive, activating his synapses.

“We’ve watched some interviews and a couple of YouTube clips,” Dagon butted in. “You know – just to understand what was so special about him for you to be so… smitten.”

“…obsessed,” Beelzebub ended the sentence together with her.

“Do ya think I could play _Happy Birthday_ with more sentiment than he plays his stuff?” Dagon asked earnestly, looking nowhere in particular but perhaps a little unsure of herself.

“Oh, no doubt, no doubt,” was Beelzebub’s quick endorsement.

But Crowley was barely listening anymore to that otherwise illuminating conversation.

He remembered the time spent watching his concerts, while he played perfectly and sitting completely upright. Did Aziraphale really feel what he was playing anymore? Was that the reason why he averted the subject of his favourite pieces to play when they had tea at that fancy restaurant?

Beelzebub was right. What Aziraphale needed was a driving force, someone to push him gently but firmly towards some kind of new inspiration, though Crowley didn’t hope to be that to him. One day, maybe…

_Crowley, focus, for fuck’s sake. That’s not the point now._

There had to be something he could do. The cogs in his mind set into motion.

_He needs to play, to practice. And that’s tiring. He’s shy and quiet, doesn’t like large audiences. But they’re all entranced as soon as he starts to play. Perhaps… perhaps he just feels the pressure and doesn’t know what it’s like to listen to him at the piano._

His breath stopped midway in his throat.

_He _should_ know that his music brings joy to people. At least it does to me._

Finally his mind was clear. He knew what he could do to wake Aziraphale up from his stupor.

He sprang to his feet, almost knocking the chair down in front of him. If it hadn’t been for his sunglasses, Beelzebub and Dagon could have seen the glimpse of hysterical determination in his eyes.

_I’m onto something here._

He rummaged in his pockets and threw a couple of notes randomly on the table as payment for things he hadn’t even ordered, before walking away in a hurry.

Dagon’s voice chased after him. “Where are you going now? Crowley! Oi, Crowley, we haven’t finished yet!”

He turned around, walking backwards for a couple of steps and shouting, “Thanks, girls! I’ll let you know!”

He caught a glimpse their faces – Dagon confused and shocked, while Beelzebub… well. She simply wasn’t paying attention to his sudden escape. She was just looking at her friend with a calm stillness, but the frost layer that usually surrounded her now was nowhere to be found, replaced by what Crowley diagnosed as a sort of restrained expectation. (He was very familiar with that kind of look. He’d come to use it frequently himself.)

As he turned around again without stopping walking and already trying to set up a plan of action, he smirked. Maybe the ice lady had found someone that could finally thaw her.

\----------------------

Being on stage was one of Crowley’s favourite parts of his job. And now, finally, he was about to experience it again.

De Angelis had found him a place in another band, just what he’d been looking for – a cover band of various glam rock groups, classic and modern ones. Chaotic, perhaps, but Crowley found it thrilling and it matched his interests. They had built a nice fanbase already and, at the same time, they weren’t too mainstream precisely because of their uniqueness.

This little arrangement had many advantages. First of all, it provided a somewhat regular financial income. Second of all, Crowley could finally, actually _play_ again in front of an audience. And lastly (but this was more luck than anything), the fans were all lovely and sweet and polite, and having a chat with them was always a pleasure.

The Them, that was their name, could almost be defined as youngsters compared to him. They were from nineteen to twenty-three years old but, frankly, Crowley thought with some pride, he had always looked a good seven years younger. With some effort, he could blend in. And besides, “the kids”, as he started to call them, had welcomed him with warmth and exuberance.

They had been looking of a new second guitarist and main vocalist for some time. Crowley knew he was worth more than something as a musician, and when the Them heard him play they immediately decided that he was a keeper.

Besides Crowley, the Them were four: Pepper at the drums; Wensleydale, also known as just ‘Wensley’, at the keyboard; Brian, the second guitarist; and finally Adam, the bassist, the band’s metaphorical lighthouse and, in certain songs, the main voice. Brian and Adam also provided the backing vocals whenever the song required them.

Actually, the only one to seem a little reluctant about Crowley joining the band had been Pepper, whose real name was something as elaborate as Pippin Galadriel Moonchild and who had remarked that “oh yeah, we really needed the umpteenth front_man_,” with a slight displeased emphasis on ‘man’. Nevertheless, Crowley had done his best to earn the warm welcome he hoped to get and she had given in easily, as early as the first band practice. She’d warmed up to him, even, in her own independent way.

The Them’s… aesthetic, so to speak, was pretty much non-existent, and that was part of the fun. Crowley was then all too happy to pull out of his closet his flashiest stage costumes – sequins and denim shorts and scandalous jumpsuits with v-cuts that travelled down to his navel; and multicoloured Harlequin printed shirts, and loose, bell-like sleeves, and boots that could have pierced anyone’s heart with their heels. None of the kids had batted an eyelid or objected in any way when he’d come to band practice wearing some of those clothes. On stage and off stage, each of the kids wore the clothes they liked, and that was that.

If anything, Brian provided for a sharp contrast with Crowley’s look. Crowley could have sworn he owned only two sweaters, three t-shirts, two pairs of trousers and a single pair of Converse shoes, constantly untied. He matched everything always in the same combinations; and Crowley quickly learned that one of the Them’s main inside jokes was trying to guess which clothes Brian would wear that day.

Crowley wasn’t old – bloody Hell, he was just thirty-one. Yet he felt even younger each of the few times he rehearsed with the Them. It was refreshing, to have someone to share your talents with that wouldn’t just go mad because someone had decided to take their favourite song out of the list for the following gig.

He thought of Warlock, and hoped that, in some years’ time, he’d find a band like that, if that was what he wanted.

_Finally, fucking finally some healthy band dynamics. Sorry, Bee – sorry, Dagon – you girls will have to fend for yourselves… though from what I’ve seen, you’re doing a pretty good job of looking out for each other already. You don’t need me, and I’m happy to say that._

The enthusiasm with which the Them welcomed him erased all of Crowley’s fears and worries about being the latest addition in a group of close friends. They didn’t ask questions about him, not even about his sunglasses. In fact, they thought they just made him look cooler – “Like a cool uncle,” Wensley had declared in a solemn tone, earning a special place in Crowley’s heart.

But if he was being honest, Crowley felt particularly touched by the whole situation. The mere concept of being part of a band again was enough to make him feel overwhelmed and very, very lucky.

The Them, Crowley included, were now in the impromptu dressing room of a pub which also provided live music for the night in a separate room. They had been getting ready for their showtime, waiting for the cue to go on stage. After that, like every respectable band, they would wait a little longer before making their appearance in front of the medium-sized crowd of customers and fans gathered inside. Fashionably late, but so much as to upset their audience.

Crowley hadn’t done this for what felt like ages, with the decline of the Cast Out Children and all, and he was starting to doubt he’d be any good again despite all the practice he’d had with the Them in the two weeks following Aziraphale’s departure.

_Great, the tad of performance anxiety I needed to spice things up._

But then he felt Adam’s hand squeeze his shoulder. He looked into Crowley’s sunglasses like he could see through them – was Crowley really that transparent? – and with a warm but unexpectedly serious smile he just said, “You’re great, uncle Tony. You’re gonna be awesome. Now let’s rock.”

And somehow, it had been enough.

They stepped in the room, then on stage, and the crowd gave some cheers and wahoos before growing a little quieter. Crowley felt a lump of excitement and vague terror in his throat as he grabbed Mary from her stand and passed the strap across his chest – just to check once again that the volumes were all set. He gave a couple of experimental riffs and the people around the stage started clapping timidly.

_Here we are again, old gal. You, me, these kids and the audience._

Adam introduced him with a brief speech that Crowley was too nervous to hear – he just waved a little awkwardly in response to the ‘whoo-hoo’s he heard coming from the audience and put Mary back on her stand. Brian would be the guitarist for the first song of their list, allowing Crowley to sing, move around freely and do whatever the Hell he wanted in his red-and-black tight jumpsuit. It was patterned like a snakeskin, with some black sequins sewn here and there, and it showed just the right, tantalizing amount of Alpha and Centauri before the opposing ends of the snakes disappeared into the sleeves to rest on his shoulder blades.

The Them went into position. The audience toned down their conversations, their eyes now glued to the band. A nice amount of dry ice began to be blown on the stage, making it look just like it had landed from another dimension.

_ Time to show off._

“_It’s a kind of magic,_” Adam and Brian began to sing, snapping their fingers for good measure, with a knowing smile between them and Crowley. In that moment, Crowley realised that he had already become fond of them all. He’d always been great with kids, even with those that were just a tad becoming too grown-ups.

Wensley, who was usually so serious-looking, was already having a blast at the keyboard, supporting Adam at the bass and inserting some harmonies in the right spots; and he was so much fun to look at – all wriggling around like a cute little viper in glasses and sweater.

Adam gave him a knowing nod while playing away on his bass.

Then Crowley smiled and started to sing. His mouth opened to the microphone, his voice unfurled and stretched on the ceiling in a rainbow ribbon. Finally.

_One dream, one soul, one price, one goal  
One golden glance of what should be_

“_It’s a kind of magic,_” harmonized the guys in the back. He caught a glimpse of Brian winking at him.

_One shaft of light that shows the way  
No mortal man can live this day_

“_It’s a kind of magic,_” the backing vocals sang again, and fuck, it was really starting to be like that. Magic. He felt the audience clapping in rhythm with the drums; someone was already jumping up and down in excitement.

Crowley took a deep breath for the next part, but he was more confident now, and he allowed himself to move around a little more. He started playing with the microphone and addressing the audience more directly with his words; then he jumped on the platform where Pepper was sitting behind the drums to get a better view of the people gathered below.

_The bell that rings inside your mind  
Is challenging the doors of time  
The waiting seems eternity  
The day will dawn of sanity_

He jumped down again, landing at the centre of the stage. There was a spotlight that was following only him, and he felt galvanized.

He was twenty again. Perhaps any other thirty-something might have said that it was an age not so far away in time after all, but it was for him.

_Is this a kind of magic?  
There can be only one  
This rage that lasts a thousand years  
Will soon be done_

God, the sheer dream-like energy of that song. Crowley felt like running and jumping so high that he wouldn’t have landed anymore. He’d needed that, the connection with the audience, the joyful sharing of electric beats and flows of energy and fists pumping in the air, hands to the ceiling, voices singing along. He could hear their notes coming to him for the entirety of the second verse, culminating in that ‘challenging the doors of time’ that drove half the audience bonkers with enthusiasm.

Almost everyone was dancing in place now. Some customers that still had to wade their way through the people to look for somewhere to sit, beers and cocktails held high above their heads. They were happy and smiling as they chatted, shooting some brief looks at that strange band playing a rock classic.

_This rage that lasts a thousand years will soon be done…_

Crowley took the microphone away from his mouth and…

“_…Done_”, the people in the audience echoed without needing any other kind of prompt. And Crowley’s stomach started to spin like it was on a spit-roast at the whoops and encouragements of the people in front of him.

“_It’s a kind of magic – magic – magic – magic – MAGIC,_” the three vocalists sang, snapping their fingers again and having fun with the counterpoint of the song before playing the coda.

Crowley smiled. It _was_ a kind of magic. He felt free and liberated again.

Seeing the reaction of the audience, he wished that one day he would muster up the courage to invite Aziraphale to one of his concerts. Just to pass some of that happiness and energy to him.

_We’ll get there, I hope. I will go slow, Aziraphale, very slow. We’ll take all the time of the world. I promise. You will find that joy again in what you do, the same that I’m feeling now._

\----------------------

**F. CHOPIN. _[The Heroic](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8QT7ITv9Ecs)__ – Polonaise_ in A-flat** **major, Op. 53.**

The phone rang and Crowley looked at the screen to see who was calling, already sighing as he expected to see Dagon’s or Beelzebub’s names once more. He’d softened considerably towards the girls since that afternoon when they’d opened his eyes about Aziraphale. Still, he wasn’t really ready for another round of ‘please let’s form a band of our own’. Not yet. Especially while he was washing the dishes.

Then, as soon as he read the first two letters of the caller’s name, he unwillingly emitted one of those falsetto notes that he was so proud of, dropped in the sink the dishes and cutlery he’d been washing and answered without even bothering to dry his hands.

“…Hello?”

“Oh, hello. It’s me… Uh, Aziraphale.”

Crowley felt as if his chest had grown a second heart in a matter of a second.

He had called. Aziraphale had kept his unsaid promise. He had really called.

“I’m back from the tour, my dear,” Aziraphale said. “I’m in London again.”

_‘My dear’. Fuck. I’ll never get used to that._

Crowley gulped, grasping a chair to keep his balance and to avoid collapsing on the floor. “How was it?”

“It was…”

A big sigh come from the other end of the line, as if Aziraphale was trying to steady himself.

“…Tiring,” Aziraphale said eventually, and Crowley felt a little out of balance at how true and earnest that word sounded. It was like a stone dropped in a perfectly still pond. Not like the Cherub’s voice at all. Not even Aziraphale’s.

It could be _Albert_’s voice, a new galaxy of sounds and silence.

He mustered some courage, enough to say, “Well, are you – are you ok now?”

“Oh yes,” was the answer, this time a little more cheerful. He could hear, literally _hear_ his smile bloom, and he tried not to have a heart attack right then and there remembering how it looked like on his face. “It’s so good to be home.”

“I… wish I had been there,” Crowley managed to hoist out of his rusty throat. “Wish I… Wish I could have heard you play.” Was it too much? Was he pushing him again? He tightened his grip on the chair, ready to retreat again in case of defeat.

_It’s fine, it’s fine. I can wait. I will always wait. I could wait six fucking thousand years, if you want to. Tell me how fast I should go._

But to his surprise, Aziraphale said very softly, “Yes. I wish you’d been there, too.”

Crowley sucked in such a sharp breath that he thought the phone screen might crack.

_He’s thought of me._

The concept made a slight feeling of vertigo creep up his stomach. He was walking blindfolded on a tightrope, with a river roaring in the distance, at the bottom of a canyon. The sky was closer than the ground below, though, and that gave him the courage to make a step on the rope to get to the other side.

There were molten lava and sparkling water in Crowley’s throat when he opened his mouth to speak. He’d planned to ask Aziraphale something like that since the day he’d talked to Dagon and Beelzebub. That was the moment.

"Won't you play something for me, Aziraphale", he said. It did not sound like a question, despite his best intentions.

He closed his eyes and pursed his lips, waiting for his answer, hoping for the best. He didn't know whether to smile or not, as if Aziraphale could've seen him smile and, as absurd as it sounded, make fun of him.

Out of the phone speaker came a breathy laugh. "Ah, I, well... What, what would you-"

"Anything," Crowley said. "Play something for me."

"Oh. Oh dear…" Crowley felt his heart on the edge of bursting. _Everything in you is so terribly soft. Even your voice._

"I-I don't know if I…" Aziraphale went on.

"Please, I… I’d like that. Very much.” A beat, and Crowley dared, “I’d love to."

A sigh on the other end, a few moments of silence.

"I was practicing, and… Will – will what I was playing be alright?" 

"More than alright. Anything you want, I’m going to hear it all."

"It's that Polonaise of Chopin's, you know – the Heroic…"

Crowley felt vaguely dizzy. As far as he knew, Aziraphale had played the Heroic only once in a live concert. It had been included in a minor event at the beginning of the Cherub’s career, of which Crowley had managed to find only an audio recording of a very bad quality.

Crowley gulped. It was like finding a solid gold bar in your mailbox when you were expecting just some flyers. Was the Universe really telling him to go on, that he was doing the right thing?

"Play it, then. Be ‘heroic’ for me."

"I, uhm. Oh, bother. Wait, let me just-"

Crowley found out that his legs were betraying him and he couldn’t stand anymore. He went to lie down on his sofa bed, spreading himself on the mattress like a skinny starfish, eyes to the ceiling.

Crowley waited with controlled anticipation to hear some noises at the other end of the line. After some seconds of silence, he heard some shuffling and crackling, with a couple tinkling sound. He realised Aziraphale was carrying the receiver around, towards the piano, probably with the whole phone in tow. The thought threatened to make him giggle and melt. 

Then he heard a light *clunk* and, exactly five seconds later, the music began. 

After the initial chord, rivulets of notes came into Crowley's ear. He was quick enough to turn the hands-free mode on. Then he threw his phone on the bed and he closed his eyes.

After a looming introduction, the music turned soft. Surprisingly, it sounded as if orange and yellow rays of light were cutting a cloudy sky sweetly, like a butter knife.

Crowley felt suspended there in the middle of that sky. There was no earth below, but he wasn’t afraid. There was only that light sensation, something exciting and gently powerful and on the whole bloody _perfect_.

The music grew more intense, Crowley more transfixed, and he realised he’d freed himself from the blindfold, he’d jumped from the tightrope into the sky. It was warm and fresh at the same time. Open and welcoming notes carried Crowley around. He let them take shape around him, painting the clouds with translucent sounds and giving him wings.

That’s what it felt like. Like flying. Listening to Aziraphale play something live, without seeing him but knowing that he was doing it for him, just for him, made something dangerous and blinding go wild inside of him. He was punched in the stomach by the most powerful exhilaration he remembered feeling, and he smiled with his eyes still closed.

The music made a surprising turn halfway through the composition, and Crowley could only imagine Aziraphale’s hands moving at the speed of light on the bass keys, in a rapid-fire loop of chords that only grew in intensity, while the fingers of his right hand brushed the treble keys to whisper the melody.

This… thing, this fucking thing that had trapped him in an imaginary sky to make him fly, was a metaphysical experience, something extracorporeal that had come to steal his soul from his body to toss it around elegantly and gently among the clouds. Crowley wasn’t expecting this kind of devastating beauty to come to his mind.

_Perhaps my imagination is just too vivid._

Aziraphale took Crowley one or two or a hundred miles higher – Crowley couldn’t tell –, repeating the main theme one last, shattering time with something that sounded like glory; and with an explosion of calculated chords, the Heroic ended.

There were some seconds of silence. Crowley couldn’t count how many. He was too busy trying to breathe again after that flight. He opened his eyes and looked at the ceiling with a sour taste of disappointment in his mouth, finding it above him instead of the clouds.

Aziraphale’s anxious, quiet voice made itself heard from the speaker. "How… was it?"

Crowley picked up the phone immediately, turning the hands-free mode off. He wetted his lips once. Twice.

"Aziraphale", said a hoarse voice that didn't sound like Crowley’s at all but _was_ his, "Aziraphale… that was... that felt like- like flying." His words were shaking a little, but there was nothing he could do about it. "By God, you're an angel."

He heard Aziraphale’s breathy laugh again. "Nonsense. It’s – it’s just my job. No-… no ‘angel’ here."

"Oh, no. By bloody God, you _are_."

\----------------------

**C. DEBUSSY. [Arabesque n. 1](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Yh36PaE-Pf0)** ** in E major. Andantino con moto.**

It became their game quickly enough. Aziraphale was always the one who called first.

"Where have you been this time, angel?"

"Canterbury, dear, then Bath and some days in Glasgow."

"And you’ve come back."

"I always do eventually, you know that."

Time after time.

"What are you up to?"

"Practicing."

"Always practicing, aren’t you?"

"Don’t tempt me to stop, foul fiend. It’s my job."

"Well, since you’re at it… Fancy playing something for me?"

"Fancy alright – whatever you wish."

Week after week.

"Now what would you like to listen to?"

"Don’t know. What have you been playing?"

"Debussy’s Arabesque n.1."

"Then that’ll do."

Month after month.

"So? Can you guess?"

"Angel, you can’t just play the whole of Liszt’s Hungarian Rhapsody n. 2 and pretend I don’t recognize it by now."

"Bravo, dear. You learn fast."

"I’ve heard to you play for years by now. If I hadn’t learnt anything, it would be worrying."

Crowley realised that he enjoyed those phone calls in particular. The excitement of thinking _He's back in town. We're going to meet_, and their playful conversations on the phone connected him to Aziraphale in a completely new way. He learned to know Aziraphale's voice like he couldn't have done in person. He would have been too focused on the way the light was always trapped in his hair like a halo; or on the crystal clear mountain lakes colouring his eyes; or on his fingers playing the keys – sometimes soft and caressing, sometimes determined and domineering, his hands stretching from thumb to little finger to reach distant notes; or on the way sweat started to crown his forehead at the end of a particular demanding composition; or on his thighs and calves wrapped in expensive trousers, heavy on the padded piano stool; or on his feet in those shoes and white spats, pushing the pedals, dragging the melody out a little longer; or on his back that was sitting perfectly upright, with the hidden mystery of his neck behind that collar, enclosed by a ridiculous and tantalising bowtie…

He had known every inch of Aziraphale’s face for a very long time, from interviews and articles and concerts and all those afternoons at school; but having those eyes on him, those lips close to him, those hands so near that he could have touched them when they walked side by side in Oxford Street, or along the Thames…

Crowley usually didn’t remember the dreams he had at night, and he was grateful that this, in fact, wasn’t a dream. He was wide awake. He could remember everything about it. The fear of crossing some unknown boundary was always there, but he noticed that it was slowly fading on both sides; and at the same time, Aziraphale seemed more and more confident in their friendship.

Still, with those phone calls, he learned the exact shape of Aziraphale’s voice. He learned its tones, its beats, the various degrees of that breathy laugh he liked so much. He learned that when he was tired, Aziraphale dragged his voice like a long velvet cape behind him. When he was relaxed, he started talking quickly, building his excitement up. When he was happy or interested, he broke his sentences, reducing them to telegrams with many U-turns in the subject, as if his thoughts were trying to go in every direction at the same time and his words couldn’t keep up with that. Aziraphale’s voice became softer every time he was daydreaming. When he was practical and tried to organize some plans, his voice sounded like it was hopping from a lily pad to the next.

And in all of that, it constantly sounded as if the wind was blowing through it, as if the clouds were rolling by over its sunny plains.

In his constant strive to get closer to Aziraphale and build a long-lasting bond of trust with him, Crowley could have listened to him talk, and talk, and play his piano, and talk for years and years.

Yet, Crowley discovered that the length of a single year was not always the same.

A year was the time it took his ear to catch the ringtone of his phone, the time it took his hand to answer it when a certain someone called – just a couple of seconds that would be replayed over and over and over in his head to form 365 whole days.

It was the time spent daydreaming.

_When will he call again? When is he coming back from Chichester, from Wales, from Glasgow? How much longer?_

Between a walk in the park and a dinner at some restaurant, between a call and another, the time Crowley spent waiting always lasted a year in his head.

But there were also some surprises.

Crowley didn’t have anything planned for that Christmas afternoon and he was thinking, rather depressingly, that he could sleep through it. Then he got a call.

"Merry Christmas, dear. Would you like to come over for tea?"

Next thing he knew, he was knocking on Aziraphale’s door and meeting his housekeeper, that famous Tracy he’d mentioned a couple of times already. Aziraphale said that she would always visit him every Christmas afternoon, after she was done celebrating with her family.

Then, seeing Crowley hesitating to come in, he explained with a shrug and a smile, “Two is nice, but three is company, don’t you think?”

They had a nice game of Scrabble in which Crowley definitely cheated and Aziraphale definitely won – and Tracy let them both have their fun. Scented candles were lit; brandy was tasted; crackers were pulled; and then Tracy, with a strange gleam in her eyes, went back home to her family. The two of them were left alone, sitting on the sofa under a tartan-patterned quilt, and the afternoon turned into evening.

It was quiet outside. The snow was falling. The Christmas lights were blinking lazily with their electric and neon yawns.

They chatted and laughed, not being hungry enough to eat a proper dinner, and watched the white icy crystals fall out of the French windows in silence. The warm and soft quilt that covered them became a small nest. Suddenly, Crowley felt a head fall on his shoulder.

Adjusting his sunglasses as best as he could without taking them off, Crowley leaned his head gently on top of Aziraphale’s, hoping that he wouldn’t wake up and that he won’t mind.

He was so drowsy that he fell asleep too; and on the morning of Boxing Day he tried to hide his embarrassment when he discovered he’d left a little spot of drool on Aziraphale’s couch. But Aziraphale didn’t seem to care.

A year, Crowley remembered, lasted as long as the change of the seasons.

Flowers bloomed and rain fell, the days became long and there were even a couple of heat waves in the mild English weather. Crowley started showing perhaps too much skin in between his clothes, and Aziraphale kept showing perhaps too little of his, under all those layers; but now there seemed to be a glimpse in his eyes, a certain expression that wasn’t there before when he looked at Crowley…

(Was there? Crowley would dismiss the thought – it couldn’t be possible, right?

It was so hard to understand what was going on. That summer, Crowley was always thirsty, always hot, but not always because of the weather.)

A year, woven of days and hours and moments, was an autumn in which the colours of the leaves mixed with their steps, with the distance between them that was getting shorter and shorter. The leaves fell, their spirits rose, time moved forward. Something shifted.

Slowly, day after day, month after month, season after season, the Earth revolved around the Sun once more, and before Crowley knew it, a year had really passed. It was November again.

But between Chopin’s Heroic and the following, revolutionary November, many more things happened that changed Crowley’s life.

\----------------------

**L. V. BEETHOVEN. _[Pastorale](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ISB3pCGyBr8) _– Symphony No. 6 in F major, Op. 68. I – Allegro ma non troppo.**

Beside the phone calls, there were the… Well. The dates.

Hiding behind any other stupid definition by then was simply useless. That spring, Crowley had to admit that he was painfully, stupidly, inexplicably besotted with Aziraphale. He didn’t know whether the feeling was mutual, but at least the angel enjoyed his company. At least they were friends now, and there was no doubt about that.

Regardless of Crowley’s inner turmoil, little by little they became closer and more comfortable around each other until, one day, their hands touched.

It was simple brush of fingers, the first time. Feeding the ducks at the park, they both reached for the peas in the paper bag at the same time and they bumped them together. Crowley restrained from rambling an apology. Aziraphale smiled and breathed out a laugh as if it had been nothing special. They forgot about it, and it happened again, and Crowley thought that if he worked hard enough, he could believe that it would still be nothing special time after time.

Those tentative little touches and brushes became more frequent, but not less meaningful to Crowley. Aziraphale touched his elbow, poked at his shoulders to call for attention, took his arm while walking in the park. But they didn’t talk about any of that directly.

When they were both in London, Crowley became a regular guest at Aziraphale’s house; he would call to invite him and Crowley would run there to listen as he practiced in the morning. That gorgeous white-and-gold piano, so polished and shiny that it mirrored perfectly its player, became something like an old friend. Crowley saw old plants being donated and replaced with new ones, and he started giving them names in secret.

He’d always felt a little intimidated by Aziraphale’s luxurious flat, but now that he had a job in a new band, he could start thinking about returning the favour and inviting him to his flat. In half a year he was out of that dingy house and moved into a much more modern and comfortable one, close to Mayfair. To be perfectly honest, it wasn’t exactly as comfortable as he’d imagined. It looked a little cold and empty, as if some pieces of furniture were missing, but Crowley liked it all the same. It had a decent-sized balcony where to put all his plants, a spacious wardrobe for his clothes and costumes, and a proper, comfortable bed in a true bedroom. The flat was all dark surfaces, smooth planes, sharp edges, and he couldn’t wait to show it to Aziraphale. He had no reason to be ashamed of where he lived anymore.

So many things were happening and changing that Crowley could almost forget that, when it came to love and feelings, he’d learned not to expect much from his life. And the reason was always, always the same: his sunglasses and his extreme reluctance to take them off.

In all those years of sentimental drought, Crowley had learned to be self-sufficient, and he’d learned it the hard way. He'd started wearing sunglasses shortly after joining the Cast Out Children. Most of the band had felt uncomfortable looking at him in the eyes and, given what had happened to him at school, Crowley had decided never to take them off.

Before making this decision, he'd tried dating some people, and that had resulted in unfortunate entanglements lasting no longer than a couple of weeks each. He'd also tried fooling around in bed a bit with his dates, but it had never gone beyond the first time with any of them.

"We can do it again next time," they all had said. There had never been a next time.

How lovely. Nobody had ever been straightforward about the reason why they hadn’t called again. Nobody had said, “I don’t think I could get used to your eyes; you should do something about them.” It didn’t matter, because Crowley had always been able to feel those words anyway. He had noticed how their eyes started to avoid his more and more often, how they had tried and failed to appear unaffected by them. Eventually, everything died down, and Crowley was left alone time after time.

The fact that other people had shown signs of discomfort had only confirmed that covering his eyes was the right choice to make his life simpler. Perhaps, without having to worry about his eyes, trying to be who he wanted to be would be a little easier.

This time was different. Crowley felt a tension slowly building in the air, as stretched as a harp string that could snap at any moment. It was as if they were both waiting for the other one to make the next first move, apparently without fear. And still… Still, they were just friends.

Crowley found all of this very confusing, to say the least. But it was also exciting in many ways. Too many ways. Ways that he had not felt since those dates in his early twenties.

Back then, when Crowley touched himself, he had also happened to have fantasies about the Cherub sometimes. But that had been _the Cherub_. Someone who looked divine, someone that Crowley could obsess over from afar. A stupid celebrity crush. He could have his poster on his door. He was allowed to sing his praises in public, have two or three dirty thoughts about him in private, and feel guilty about it in secret.

He had never really talked to him, not even at school. It felt ridiculous and shameful and stupid to jerk himself off thinking about him, the odd time – sometimes before going to sleep, sometimes in the shower before breakfast. And the Cherub always stayed there afterwards, perfect and soft and unreachable and untouchable; and Crowley, too, always stayed there afterwards, unmoving, guilty and vaguely ashamed.

But since he had started going out with Aziraphale, the situation had been getting slowly but steadily worse. At every date, Crowley tried to keep himself under control, reminding himself that having such kinds of thoughts about his friend was only unhealthy and could lead to a great fucking disaster.

He couldn’t help it. Aziraphale had such a scent of- of vanilla, and jasmine, and lemon and gingerbread, that Crowley had to put some distance between them from time to time, so that he could avoid closing his eyes and sniffing his throat like a fucking maniac.

He had the softest fingers – he could tell just by looking at them; but _feeling_ them as they carefully grabbed a handful of peas to throw them to the ducks, well – it was an electric shock.

Not to mention his gentle curves. He was soft. He was warm. He had eyes that invited you to drown in them. Cheeks that wanted to be bitten. Curves and slopes that belonged to a bucolic painting, lips like gentle hills to fall asleep on…

Fucking Hell.

By then he wasn’t looking just for some way to blow off steam anymore. He was seeking a kind of contact that he couldn’t have, something that kept dangling before his eyes. He’d draw out pleasure from the pictures in his mind and felt exhausted in the end, white on his hand and a sigh in his throat.

It was enough. It _had _to be enough, anyway, because if he kept it all like that, if he didn’t cross any line with him, at least they could still be friends.

It was strange. Aziraphale, being Aziraphale, was sweet and cheerful and a literal ray of sunshine on earth, but he’d lowered many of the masks that covered him, and he was more authentic.

And the more he showed to be a little more fussy and anxious than he’d always pretended, the more Crowley wanted to spend time with him, wanted to keep going on dates with him, even though neither of them called them like that.

Those _dates _with Aziraphale felt like sitting on a rocking chair in front of a fireplace, being gently warmed and lulled to sleep by the soothing twists and pops of the flame.

After that time in which their friendship had threatened to end before even beginning, Crowley had learnt to be patient; and Aziraphale was learning to be trusting, as he laid down layer after layer of his armours.

They were having that long-awaited picnic, the one Aziraphale had mentioned the autumn before. It was a warm day in late May and the countryside out of London was bursting with life and flowers, with occasional chilly moments when the clouds covered the sun.

Crowley and Aziraphale were sitting on a chequered red and white cover, watching the clouds roll by from the spotted shade of a tree.

After all sorts of salted delicacies, towards the end of their lunch, Aziraphale was about to tackle some heavily frosted cupcakes, bought in some fancy patisserie called Sweet Temptations or some other thing like that, no doubt.

“It’s so nice being out here in the nature,” Aziraphale said, gently peeling the paper envelope off the first cupcake. “I really needed that. Playing _The Devil’s Staircase_ every night for four nights in a row, not to mention practicing it… Let me tell you, I wouldn’t wish it on my hereditary enemy.” He took a bite.

Crowley pretended very badly to be absolutely unaffected by those lips closing on the frosting. He gulped. Perhaps some teasing would help.

"Nonsense. To play like you do, you must have angel's fingers."

Ok. Perhaps the teasing, or the flirting, or whatever the Hell that was, had not been a good idea. ‘Angel's fingers’? For the love of God. It sounded like the name of some kind of biscuit baked by a sweet old lady. Or of a cheap porn magazine.

"Oh. Well. If I have… _angel's fingers_," Aziraphale lowered his eyes and his cheeks became tinted by a layer of watercolour pink, "you, in turn, surely must sing like a devil."

The cupcake was now completely safe inside Aziraphale’s stomach, and he realised with a small ‘Oh!’ that he had his fingers coated with frosting. Then he proceeded to lick them. One by one. Very slowly. Very methodically.

Crowley realised he’d started staring at him like a creep. He watched the scene as if he’d seen some sort of vision, as if he were in a museum in front of a statue, overwhelmed by the Stendhal syndrome. Gaping.

Aziraphale was clearly enjoying himself because he started moaning like the success of that picnic depended on him behaving like _that_. He closed his eyes and produced a smile that swelled his cheeks like two very pink, very small, very round apples. He was illegal in fourteen different states already, and Crowley was fucking lost.

Aziraphale tilted his head in the process and cracked his eyes open, looking at Crowley from under his eyelashes. The best thing, or the worst, was that, in all of this, he looked – no, he _was_ absolutely innocent. He didn’t have the faintest idea of what he was doing to Crowley and he kept doing it intentionally. The bastard.

Aziraphale looked exactly like he could come up with a nice little catchphrase like “Wanna try?” or “My dear, let me tempt you to try these,” to end Crowley forever.

Not good. So very not good.

Crowley was sweating. Not because of the sun, of course. He curled his toes and hoped his body wouldn’t have any more reactions. He forced himself to look away from that free-to-watch porn show and tried to ogle the hills in the distance instead.

Still, since he needed to prove that he was, in fact, an idiot, Crowley gave a high-pitched laugh. "Oh, eh – oh yeah?" he squeaked. "You haven't heard me sing yet, though."

"Mmh," Aziraphale moaned again, and Crowley tried (failing) to not pay too much attention. “I'm not a… a big concert attendee, truly. But maybe, under the right circumstances… One day…" Thank some deity, Aziraphale had finished emitting his innocently obscene sounds. He locked eyes again with Crowley, satisfied and relaxed in such a peaceful way that Crowley wanted nothing more than to hug him and bury his face into his shoulder to cry of tenderness.

Instead, he said, "‘One day’, what? Are you asking for a private demonstration, angel?" And he bloody winked. He resisted the urge to slap or punch himself only because he didn’t know what the Hell he was doing anymore by then.

“Perhaps,” was the cheerful answer that Crowley received. And Crowley found no strength to flirt further than that, because Aziraphale, as he finished licking his fingers, gave one last moan that sounded exactly like it was crafted with the precise aim to strike him down.

Watching the hills, Crowley decided as he looked away, was far safer.

\----------------------

**A. VIVALDI. _[La Follia](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7v8zxoEoA_Q)_** ** – Sonata in D Minor, Op. 1, No. 12, RV. 63**

Anathema's bespectacled eyes emerged from behind the music sheet. "You flying disaster. You expect me to understand anything about this?" She glanced alternatively down to it and up to Crowley's sunglasses. "I can't read music, you know that."

"Neither could Freddie."

Crowley and the Them were about to play and he was trying to get into one very tight, very v-necked, very sparkly silver jumpsuit.

Anathema snorted. "That’s enlightening, honey, but I'm not Freddie Mercury."

"Anja, you _know_ what song this is, what's the melody, the lyrics, yadda yadda."

She sighed. "Of course I do. You made me listen to it an unhealthy amount of times."

"See?"

She sighed again, harder, rolling the sheets up carefully and putting them back in Crowley’s big leather bag on a small table nearby, safe and far from the makeup scattered in front of the dressing room mirror. She pinched the bridge of her nose, pushing her glasses slightly upwards.

"I just wish you didn't summon the Witches' Sabbath whenever you already have answers to your doubts."

“I didn’t summon a bloody thing this time, Anja. You were already here for the concert.”

She crossed her arms. “Yeah, but this feels like a summon anyway.”

“I just wanted to ask you if, according to you, he might agree to play it. That’s all.”

“Well, first of all, obviously I don’t know. I haven’t even met him yet, I just know him from the things you tell me. And anyway, you’ve spent _months_ rearranging this, AJ. If anything, he’ll try playing it out of politeness.”

He adjusted his sunglasses and looked away. “Thanks a lot for being so cynical. Perfectly on time.”

Anathema sighed. “Sorry. That came out wrong. What I meant was… well. I just hope it will be alright. For you. You’ve got it so bad for him – I would never want that you-… And what is it that you’re doing, anyway, you two-legged disaster?”

Crowley followed her gaze and realized a little too late that he’d been trying to wear the jumpsuit backwards. He shimmied out of it with some difficulty (fuck, if it was tight), turned it around and tried again.

God, he was so nervous.

“So you want to, like, just give this to him when you meet him,” Anathema flailed a hand at the handwritten music sheet inside Crowley’s bag. “What are you going to do? Carry it around wherever you go? Have you been doing this already? It could take weeks before you meet. You know his schedule better than I do, and he’s always kinda busy… Is he even in town?”

Crowley sighed and he put on his white military jacket full of straps and buckles and tassels. Yes, he knew that Aziraphale was always busier than him, and as a matter of fact, he also knew that he was in town. He’d just finished a month-long charity tour in Wales and he had called Crowley, but they hadn’t agreed on a date yet.

One thing was knowing that this friendship was as exciting to build and unsteady as a house of cards, and another one was your best friend prying into it. It was ridiculous and tiring.

“Anja, thanks for the visit, but- just- go enjoy the concert now. I’ll talk to you later.”

She gave him one of her looks, the one that meant ‘I know you’ve been working hard, so please try not to screw it up, because this time I don’t know how I could help you’. Then, while Wensley came in and started adjusting his shirt in the mirror, she made to go. “I guess I’ll go back to Newt. He’s been waiting for me. Better go check he doesn’t break some speakers or whatever by simply breathing on it. It’s going to ruin the mood and I’d like to finally snog him properly tonight.”

Wensley startled and turned around. “Are you… talking about my brother?”

“Hey, he’s cute. And sweet,” Anathema shrugged happily. Then she became very serious and looked at Crowley straight in the eye. “I really hope you know what you’re doing, AJ.” With that, she left.

Wensley exchanged A Perplexed Look with Crowley. “Let me tell you, uncle Tony – your best friend is really odd sometimes.”

A couple of hours later, midnight was quickly approaching and the Them were rocking it through their list – Darkness, some Bowie, some quick hints to something more modern like Foxy Shazam and the Struts – and then came the Queen Moment.

Crowley was always happy to play any of the song in their list, but Queen had been something completely different since his childhood. He’d discovered them almost by chance and they’d helped him go through some hard times. Queen had shaped his style, his voice, his person, his soul; and by now the Them knew that their songs had a special meaning for him, so he always got to be the main vocalist in their covers.

The audience was roaring with enthusiasm, and the band wasted no time. Adam and Brian began to harmonise the overture to _Breakthru_, with Wensley accompanying on the piano; then Adam started playing his bass at the speed of light, and they were on.

Crowley was simply bursting with energy when he began to sing.

_I wake up and feel just fine  
Your face fills my mind  
I get religion quick ‘cause you’re lookin’ divine  
Honey you’re touching something, touching me  
I’m under your thumb, under your spell. Can’t you see?_

(Why was it that those lyrics reminded him of Aziraphale? Was it so difficult to separate his job from the chaos of his personal life?

It didn’t matter. On that stage there were only the music, the people and him.)

_If I could only reach you…_

Brian gave a riff of his guitar, and the spotlights towards the audience turned red.

_If I could make you smile…_

Another riff, and they turned green.

(There she was – Anathema, jumping up and down excitedly and holding Wensley’s brother’s hand, screaming her lungs out in support.)

_If I could only reach you…_

A third one, and they turned blue.

_That would really be a breakthrough, oh yeah._

And then Crowley saw him. Offstage, among the people. Those white curls. Those expressive eyes following his movements. A smile that Crowley had seen many years before, when he used to spend a couple of hours every other afternoon sitting in hallways and hiding behind doors.

_What the fuck._

Aziraphale, of all people, was there.

Crowley’s mind was reeling, hitting at a hundred miles per hour. How? Why? Oh fucking Hell.

Crowley was thankful for wearing sunglasses, because otherwise his eyes could have just flown out of their sockets and into outer space.

But the show had to go on. Feeling exhilarated almost like a madman, Crowley launched himself back into the song just in time for the bridge.

_Breakthrough – these barriers of pain  
Breakthrough – yeah, to the sunshine from the rain  
Make my feelings known towards you  
Turn my heart inside and out before you now…  
Somehow I have to make this final breakthrough… now._

Fuck fuck fuck shit fuck, Aziraphale was there, he was _watching_ him – watching _him_, in that costume, on that stage, in that moment. It all really felt like ascending above the clouds to another planet. And why was it that whenever Aziraphale was involved, there was music playing? It was a fucking miracle, that’s what it was.

He started the second verse, and he tried, he really tried not to look only at him, but God if it was difficult. Aziraphale hadn’t stopped smiling a single moment, and Crowley swore he was blushing. Fuck, he felt rather flustered himself, more than he’d been during any of his concerts.

_Your smile speaks books to me  
I break up with each and every one of your looks at me  
Honey you’re starting something deep inside me  
Honey you’re sparking something, this fire in me  
I’m out of control, I wanna rush headlong into this ecstasy…_

Suddenly, he had an idea. He felt so high that he hoped not to regret it later, but right then he just couldn’t care.

_If I could only reach you…_

Standing in front of the microphone, Crowley took out a sleeve of his white jacket. The golden tassels twinkled under the lights and reflected the shine of the rings on his fingers. The wild reaction of the audience gave him more confidence, and he added a lopsided smile to his attire as he sang on.

_If I could make you smile…_

He took out the other sleeve, shimmying the jacket off his shoulder, then holding it with one hand. The people roared, probably excited to see that jumpsuit in its entirety, and Aziraphale let his mouth fall open, taking a hand to his chest.

_If I could only reach you…_

The Them were ooh-ing and backing him up, playing all around him, when Crowley started to move the jacket in circles above his head, faster and faster. It was now or never, as cheeky and stupid as it was.

_That would really be a breakthrough_ _–_

The jacket left his hand, it flew above the public and, thanks to Crowley’s good aim or some kind of miracle, it landed exactly in Aziraphale’s arms. Crowley saw him as he instinctively clutched it tight, smiling from ear to ear.

It took Crowley all of his strength and focus not to fall off the stage seeing that smile.

He didn’t remember ever feeling better. He felt more alive than ever, he wanted to laugh and laugh and laugh until his lungs would eventually explode.

He locked eyes with Aziraphale, as much as his sunglasses allowed him. His body was doing all sorts of strange movements, sauntering from one side of the stage to the other, arching and twisting his back at improbable angles. He knew that Aziraphale was following his every movement; still, Crowley found out that he wasn’t ashamed of being seen there. At all.

_Watch this, angel. This is how it should be. This is how it should feel._

After the end of the concert, the band retreated in the relative quietness of their dressing rooms. One by one they went home, until Crowley was the only one left, as usual. It took the others a minute and a half to change back into everyday clothes, while it took Crowley half an hour at least, with all his extravagant tight clothes and jewels and sometimes makeup under the sunglasses.

“So he was here,” Anathema said, arms crossed. He’d left Newt just outside of the dressing rooms, the poor bloke, so that she could go check on Crowley.

He mumbled something in answer, too busy folding his jumpsuit and putting it carefully into the bag. And busy thinking about Aziraphale, of course. He was finally coming down from the high of having seen him there, in the crowd of people, having a good time, but his fingers were still shaking a little.

“You could have given him that,” she pointed with her chin at the rolled up music sheets in his bag, “if only he’d come here to say hello.”

Crowley was about to try to ignore the distant sting that Anathema’s remark had elicited in him (_If only he’d come here to say hello…_) when there was a knock on his door. More a rasp than a knock, actually.

Crowley’s instinct knew who it was immediately. That same instinct made him lift his face to look in the mirror.

Out of habit, his hand went to push the sunglasses up his nose, though they were always perfectly in place. The back of Crowley’s mind realised that he’d made sure to be wearing them only as an afterthought. It hadn’t been the first thing he’d thought of, like it usually happened.

That was odd.

He looked into the glass, and there he was. Aziraphale. Crowley’s jacket in his hands, a bashful but happy smile on his face, unsure whether to come in or not.

“Oh,” Anathema said, her eyebrows shooting up when she, too, noticed Aziraphale’s presence. “Well. Forget what I was saying, AJ, I… will go home now. Newt has waited for me long enough. See ya, boys.” She gave Crowley her usual knowing look and she disappeared in a twirl of dark skirts.

Aziraphale stared for some seconds at the empty threshold, his mind lost somewhere.

The resulting silence quickly became heavier and heavier. “That was Anja,” Crowley said, trying to fill the void.

Aziraphale snapped back to reality. “Oh!” he simply said, smiling. “The famous Anathema. I wish I’d had the quickness of mind to introduce myself. Next time, I guess.”

_Next time._ Crowley’s mind somersaulted every time he heard those words. _Next time._

“I-I was here for your jacket,” Aziraphale went on, and he handed it to him very naturally. As if Crowley hadn’t just made a complete fool of himself on stage in front of him. Deliberately for him. And it had been worth it. “Told you, my dear. You have a devil’s voice.”

“Thanks.” Crowley turned around and took the jacket from his hands, trying not to choke on the compliment. “Didn’t know you knew I’d be playing tonight.” _Or that you would actually come here._

“I researched,” Aziraphale said. “I thought – well, you have been to so many of my concerts. It was only polite to-… to return the favour.”

Crowley was dumbstruck. Aziraphale had taken the time to track him down, he’d paid the ticket, and he stayed up until… What time was it, again? Well… Late. Very late.

“‘Twas nice of you,” Crowley murmured and smiled earnestly.

In the silence that followed, Crowley remembered the conversation he’d had with Anathema a few moments before, and he darted a couple of looks to his bag. Despite his sunglasses, he wasn’t very subtle, because Aziraphale followed his gaze, with something like curious confusion painted on his delicate features.

_Well, fuck it. What better moment than now?_

Crowley reached in the bag and took out the handwritten music sheet he’d rearranged during the past weeks.

“What’s that?” Aziraphale asked. Crowley watched with fascination his eyes light up at the mere hint of music paper, like a hound dog in front of a hare.

“It’s, uh.” _Come on, Crowley. It’s the perfect chance. Don’t waste it. Don’t._ “It’s… something I’ve been working on. A song. Well, technically,” he hastened to explain, pushing panic back with both hands in his mind, “it’s an arrangement. Like, a cover? Of a Queen song, only for guitar and piano.”

Aziraphale had not taken his eyes off it yet. A good omen, perhaps. “Is it?”

“Yes… well, uhm. I thought we could. Play it together. Someday.” There. He’d said it.

Aziraphale made that surprised expression that was almost typical of him. “Play together?”

“Yes,” Crowley said, regretting this situation by the second. “We could work on it together. Could be fun.”

Aziraphale took it from his hands, carefully, as if he feared the sheets would crumble any moment under his touch. “Curious,” Aziraphale said, and it sounded like he was marvelling at his own voice. Then he gave his typical breathy laugh and added, as an afterthought, “I wondered what it would feel like to play bebop just last week.”

Crowley snorted, thankful for the change of tone that seemed to break the tension. “We could try, but only if you want to.”

_Please don’t let this be too weird for you. Too fast._

Aziraphale browsed the music sheet quickly, making Crowley break in a cold sweat.

Then he nodded. “Why not? I guess… I guess trying something new can’t hurt.” He hesitated before adding, “But I can’t promise to have a look at it soon. I have to start another tour next week, and I’ll be busy with a CD recording after that, so…”

“Hey,” Crowley said, using his softest voice. In hindsight, he didn’t know how his hands ended up squeezing Aziraphale’s shoulder in comfort. It just happened. “No pressure. At all. I would like just to find new ways to have fun together. Well, uh, I _mean_-” (God, why were words so difficult?) “I mean, to play something with you. Something you’re not used to. I played my share of classical music when we were at school, yeah? Seems only fair that you tried something more modern in turn now.” He smiled.

Crowley felt like his reasoning didn’t make much sense once explained aloud, but the die was cast and Aziraphale did not look unsure or scared. In fact, he laughed. It was, Crowley concluded, a small victory.

Then Crowley became more serious. He needed assurance that this was actually going somewhere. That it would be ok.

_I shouldn’t invest so fucking much of myself into this. I really shouldn’t. What if something goes wrong? What if he gets tired of this thing we have, whatever it is? What if he-_

“Promise me that you won’t… go look for the song and listen to it or whatever. Just practice what’s written here.”

Aziraphale looked a little taken aback. “Oh. Oh, well. Alright.” He wasn’t suspicious, though.

This was a second small victory. How long could Crowley keep trying his luck?

“I want the final result to be a surprise. It’s going to be cool. You’ll see. But you’ll have to trust me.” He hoped he hadn’t been too forward, but he could find no other way to put it.

Aziraphale nodded again, more solemnly this time. “I promise.”

Crowley let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding and released Aziraphale’s shoulders (how long had his hands been there?). His face was probably as red as a tomato. Whatever – he could come back to easy banter now. “Also, angel, I suggest you to warm up your vocal cords. There’s going to be a little bit of singing, too.”

“Well, I could have guessed,” Aziraphale smirked. “There are lyrics written here.”

Crowley gulped. He really had looked at the sheets carefully already while browsing them. “Can you, then?”

“Can I what?”

“Sing.”

“Yes, a little. I used to sing in the school choir twice a week, back in the day.”

At that, against all expectations, someone appeared at the door and they both turned to look.

It was Brian. “Uncle T, you still here? I think I left my phone-…” He noticed Aziraphale and he stopped in his tracks.

Aziraphale gave him a welcoming smile, as if his presence there were the most natural thing in the world. “Oh, please, do come in. Crowley and I were just having a small chat.”

Brian arched an eyebrow, but did not comment any of that. “Thanks,” he just said, picking up his phone that he had actually left charging on the floor.

“I could’ve stepped on it,” Crowley said. “Next time just use the socket near the table.”

“There was _your_ phone in it, actually,” Brian teased, already retreating.

“Oh. Yeah. Well, in that case, you can keep charging it in the other one.”

Brian laughed and he turned to Aziraphale. “Nice to meet you, then…?” he said in a friendly and expecting way.

Aziraphale seemed puzzled, then he realised what he meant. “Oh, yes, uh – I’m- I’m Albert.”

Brian beamed with a toothy happy smile and he waved. “Awesome. See you then. Bye, Uncle Tony.”

“Don’t stay up late!” Crowley shouted after him, smiling in return. It was past 3am anyway.

And then they were alone again.

After a couple of seconds of silence in which he stared at the empty doorframe, Aziraphale giggled and turned to Crowley. “Uncle Tony, uh?” He looked fond and teasing.

“Yeah,” Crowley said, surprisingly proud of that nickname. “They like me, and I like ‘em. They’re nice guys.”

Aziraphale’s posture shifted. It became more curled up, like a flower closing when the sun is setting. Crowley noticed it, and went very quiet.

Aziraphale did something that could only be described as a wiggle. He was more than a little uncertain, Crowley deduced, as he held his breath out of an instinctive reaction.

“Do you think I can…” Aziraphale trailed off.

Many seconds of silence passed. The tension grew unbearable, but Crowley waited.

Aziraphale started wringing his hands. “Can I… call you Anthony?”

Crowley stood there, unmoving and unblinking. This was the last thing he’d expected to hear.

Anthony. No one had called him with his first name, and most importantly using that tone.

He sure went by many names. Crowley, mostly. AJ, for Anja. Most recently, Uncle Tony for the Them. And there had been many others – many more names that were painful grain of salts on his constantly open but hidden wounds.

Snake-eyes. Freak. Jinx. Fairy.

But Anthony… Anthony. His own name. It sounded different than the condescending tone used by Gabriel De Angelis or by his mother, years before. It sounded like a stone gently dropped in a lake. A soothing chill on his body. The water to wash away the salt.

“’s alright,” he said. Then, before his brain could process what his mouth was about to say, he added, “Can I… can I call you Albert, then?” He started nibbling his lower lip.

Aziraphale’s lips formed an “O”, sucking a small breath in. For a moment he seemed bewildered, but then he smiled in the most tender way and he nodded. “Deal.”

\----------------------------

**F. CHOPIN. [Nocturne](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bVeOdm-29pU) in E-flat major, Op. 9, No. 2.**

On a pleasantly warm evening in early September, Albert asked him, "What colour are your eyes, dear?"

They were standing on the waterfront, watching the Thames flow, sparsely crowded with lazy boats and glistening gentle waves rolling by, while the last crowds of tourists strolled behind and around them after a dinner at a restaurant or a play.

Close by, in front of them, the Millennium Bridge twisted with energy, connecting a sepia-toned part of the town to a Technicolor one – St. Paul’s cathedral to the Tate Modern gallery.

Crowley had been thinking of how those buildings were just like the two of them – white and round and welcoming the first one; red and tall and pointy the second –, when Aziraphale had dropped that question like a bomb, after an unusual lull in their conversation.

If Crowley stiffened, it was only a little. He took a breath before answering. "Brown."

"How brown?"

"What do you mean, ‘how brown’?"

"Well, you know. There are many hues. Dark brown? Light brown? Chestnut, mahogany, maybe?"

Crowley looked stubbornly at the water. Yeah – what colour were his eyes? He realised that, as stupid as it sounded, he wasn't sure anymore either. He only took his sunglasses off before going to bed and in the safety of his home; whenever he put some eyeliner on his eyes in the morning, he tried not to think about them too much; and he would never let anyone take a picture of him with his sunglasses off.

"I… Mmh. I guess… hazel? Or maybe amber? Dunno. Depends on the weather and the light and… stuff. I think."

"Oh, that's better," Albert said, smiling with excitement. "_That's_ something I can imagine. I’m sure they are very beautiful eyes."

Crowley didn't answer immediately. He didn’t know what to say without exposing himself too much. He was used to that by now – to spitting out parts of the whole story while hiding the rest. He knew this couldn't last, though. One day, he was sure, Albert would get tired of all that postponing, of not knowing him completely. And that would be the end.

But it was no use worrying about it now.

Crowley sighed. “You always have kind words for every occasion. I don’t know how you do that. It’s… so nice.” He paused. “Actually, I think… I think you may be the nicest person I’ve ever met.”

Being in love, Crowley reasoned, could ruin you completely. You just needed to tread too far: you crossed an invisible line, and you’d fuck it up. When it happened, that there was no going back. There was no cleaning the blackboard, no rewinding the tape, no tearing the page away. You could only go just forward.

Still, that love changed you. You’d made room in yourself for something, anticipating it with the zeal and the quiet care of a bird building a nest. You’d created a place to welcome something that eventually wouldn’t be there. The love you felt left you like an empty black hole in a tree trunk; a mass of scrawny twigs, fallen feathers and broken shells instead of a nest. Love left before even coming, and after that you’d have a single last thought to cling to, like a goodbye note: _If only I hadn’t crossed that line._

Crowley lived his silent love waiting for that moment. One day, Albert would ask him again to take his sunglasses off, to see his eyes; and maybe Crowley, who couldn't deny him anything at all, would still end up denying him again that part of himself.

Albert’s understandable curiosity for Crowley’s eyes had threatened to drive them apart already once. Back then, if Albert had chosen to go on with his life without him, he’d have stepped aside, he’d have been miserable, but he would have still had a flimsy chance to get over it. He could have always tried to be simply a normal fan.

And here was another problem.

Crowley all but detested the word 'normal'. He was in that uncomfortable position where he craved for normality but, because of what his eyes looked like, he couldn't remotely dream of it – or at least he hadn't done it for a long time. This duality made him feel constantly like he was the least normal person in the world.

Generally, he’d learned to embrace this lack of so-called normality, as it gave him an energizing sense of fulfilment in return.

Then there were times like this, times of musing, in which he _feared_ his not being normal.

Of all people, Albert had chosen _him_ to build a friendship through which to connect back to the world. He wasn’t trusting a ‘normal’ person. He was trusting a nervous, tattooed and bejewelled singing weirdo who was so self-conscious that he never took his sunglasses off. It felt like an enormity. A whale in a goldfish bowl.

“Thank you, dear,” Albert said. Crowley couldn’t see if he was blushing or not. He hoped he was. “Sometimes it’s a matter of survival, though. When you don’t speak much, you must make each word count.” Albert smiled wistfully at him before letting his eyes wander somewhere on the water.

Crowley felt the devastating need to trace that smile with his fingertips.

_Will you ever get tired of me? Of smiling at me?_

He crossed his arms.

“I’ve never been much of a talker, you know,” Aziraphale went on. “That is, if I’m uncomfortable with the person I’m talking to.”

“You’re always polite, though,” Crowley remarked. “That doesn’t come easy. Does you credit. Besides,” he added, “sometimes talking is overrated.” And he smiled at him.

“You can be polite even without talking,” Albert said. His smiled faded and he closed his eyes for some seconds. When he opened them, the words left his mouth in a blind confusion, like baby birds waiting for food from their parents. “But I guess my point is, when you’re like… like me, you- you never get to be… _close_… to anyone. In any way.”

“Oh.”

Albert’s words left a punch-shaped dent in Crowley’s chest.

Crowley looked at him. The way he avoided his gaze, the tone of his voice, his sigh between what he’d said… He couldn’t mistake the deep sense of solitude and loneliness that Albert was trying to nudge into his words.

Albert looked at the river. Not far from there, on the other side, was St. Paul’s – white and round and silent. Crowley followed Albert’s gaze and watched it, too.

“I’ve always wondered,” said Albert, “what it feels like to have someone to talk to. Like this.”

Crowley turned towards him again. Albert absentmindedly scratched the stone railing with a finger, then he caressed its smooth surface.

Crowley was unable to look away from that hand. “Like this?”

“Like you,” Albert whispered.

Crowley was left speechless, just staring at him behind his sunglasses.

“Can I hug you?” Albert said, looking at him and opening his arms a little, as if to ask permission and to invite him in at the same time.

Crowley felt himself nodding. Was it really happening? Was it a dream? It had to be…

Then he was wrapped by a pair of soft but inherently strong arms. Albert, for some reason, laid his head on his upper chest, resting partially on his shoulder. Long eyelashes fluttered shut and tickled Crowley’s neck. It was the sweetest thing and Crowley could have died on the spot.

It took Crowley a good five seconds to hug him back.

The people kept strolling around them along the river, unperturbed by the way Albert’s warm body managed to affect Crowley even through all those layers of clothes. It was unbelievable and spectacular. The closest thing to normality that he had ever experienced.

Albert exhaled softly. “I’m so happy to have a friend.”

_Fuck._

Crowley’s heart grew three sizes bigger in one second and it took the air away from his lungs. He was frozen to place but he wanted to scream and tear his own hair out.

_I’m so fucked._

How can you tell a friend that you’re in love with them? Because that’s where Crowley was at. Albert was not just his teenage idol, or a good acquaintance, or the sweetest friend he’d ever had. Not anymore.

Crowley had grown to love Albert in such a way that he couldn’t think it were possible. It was the faint buzz of the Universe, a planet trailing his constant orbit around a star. Distant and silent, but basking in its glow and warmth, unaware of the day when gravity would win and the star would swallow it whole.

Still Crowley was there, wrapped in Albert’s arms with the river flowing next to them.

Crowley didn’t know what to do with his love. Despite himself, he wished he couldn’t feel it, that he could be just a very good friend. He wanted to ball those feelings up like a paper bag and throw them in the river, and to Hell if that meant littering.

Still… Damn, it felt nice. Albert’s arms were holding him, his scent of vanilla and jasmine was going straight to his head, the late September air was ruffling their hair, and yes, Crowley was still in love with his friend, and it was achingly beautiful, painfully comforting, and he couldn’t change an ounce of it.

Albert started mumbling something. When Crowley managed to understand what he was saying, he fell even more silent than he already was. “I don’t know what could have become of me without you.”

Crowley didn’t know how he was still breathing. How could he answer things like that?

Then, for the first of countless times, he replayed Albert’s words in his mind. By the tone of his voice, Crowley realised that Albert was not melancholy or sad.

He was relieved. He was even _happy_. Crowley had made him _happy_ and he wasn’t even sure how.

He didn’t have the heart to say anything more. He just stood there, holding Albert a little tighter, just enough to anchor himself as well. Being Albert’s friend, his only one, was a little bewildering. But he could do it. He would.

\----------------------------

Crowley’s phone rang. He took it, looked at the screen. He groaned. He looked at it again and groaned some more.

What did De Angelis want now? It was Sunday morning, he was still in bed and had a splitting headache. Probably from all the alcohol he’d drunk with the kids the night before, after that concert.

(Despite all his wishful thinking, Crowley was not going to be 20 again. On the contrary, every day reminded him that he’d be turning 32 soon. He should get his shit together, possibly.

But right now he just wanted to sleep through it.)

Yet, he supposed that he couldn’t just ignore his agent’s calls, especially now that he was actually in a band and after he’d volunteered to deal with him on behalf of all, with everything that it implied. He was starting to regret it, the spokesperson of the Them, but he’d volunteered, and the band had agreed to leave the bureaucratic part to him, since he was already his agent.

“Yes?” he croaked into the phone, accepting the call.

“Anth-… Crowley! Well, how’s my favourite rockstar?”

Crowley felt like groaning even harder, but he was too tired and sleepy to do that again. “Wha’?” he slurred instead.

“Straight to the point, eh? I like your attitude.”

Crowley wanted to bury his face in the pillow. Or De Angelis’s face, he couldn’t decide.

“So, hear me out,” De Angelis went on, very loudly awake and straightforward like he always was. “I’ve been monitoring you. You’ve been making good progress. I was thinking about making you an offer.”

“Technically, I am… part of a band now, though. You know.”

“Of course, of course, I meant you and the kiddos.”

Crowley wrinkled his nose. The Them were _his_ kids. He felt a flare of protectiveness surging in him. “So?”

“You have built a nice reputation and I think you could go so far as planning to take part to some festival, you know – for a visibility boost. There’s going to be this music festival around Christmas, called…” he shuffled some papers, “… ‘The Marvellous Music Mix Festival’. It’s just outside London, not too far. Thought you’d all be interested.”

“Nice,” Crowley hissed. He hated being so grumpy, even to De Angelis, but the truth was he just wanted to go back to sleep for another couple of hours.

“Actually,” De Angelis went on conversationally and totally unprompted, “I’m signing up a bunch of my clients, if they want. As I said, it can be a nice showcase. And there will be many opportunities for everyone – it’s going to be the festival’s main point. Like a meet-and-mix of music genres. You rockers, pop singers, some classical musicians even…”

Crowley’s eyes shot open. Now _that_ was a way of getting his attention.

“I see.” He licked his lips. “Will… will Mr. Fell be there, too?"

_You really couldn’t help asking, you idiot, could you? _

"Uh? Wait, you mean Albert Fell? Oh,” De Angelis said. Crowley imagined that he’d remembered just then that they’d actually met even before Crowley became his client.

He bit his lip. He really shouldn’t have asked something like that. _Stupid, fucking stupid –_

And sure as Hell on earth, the answer came. “Frankly, Crowley, I don't see how this is relevant to what I'm saying. And I don’t really think I am allowed to discuss my other clients’ plans with you. Or with anyone, really.”

Well. That did make sense…

But – no, wait. How convenient was for De Angelis to brag about his clients whenever he wanted, showing them off like cakes behind a baker’s glass, only to get back in a defensive stance when he _didn’t_ want to talk about something?

_Remember the way this asshole’s treating _him_. Remember when Albert ran away from the theatre the day you signed the contract._

_It’s _his_ fault. Do it for Albert._

"Just answer the question, Mr. De Angelis, please," he half-growled, half-grimaced into the phone.

De Angelis huffed. “Well, if you really want to know, he's still thinking about it.”.

A bucket of half-melted ice fell on Crowley. Albert _was_ considering going. _But_… he also hadn’t said yes yet.

“Thank you,” he mumbled. _Was that so difficult?_, he didn’t add.

“What about you guys, then?” De Angelis said, his voice carefully calculated and business-like again.

“I actually don’t think it will be a problem,” Crowley said. “I’ll talk to the band, but I have a feeling they’re going to say yes. Sounds like a nice idea, and they’re always very enthusiastic of everything.”

“Excellent. I will be in touch in a couple of days’ time with details. Have a nice weekend!” And he hung up.

Crowley sighed, throwing his phone on the small bedside table and pulling the covers over his head. He needed some time to process what had just happened.

He wanted to phone Albert so badly, wanted to ask him what he had decided, _if_ he had decided.

_I know you’ve been asked to go. _

That already sounded creepy.

_Will you be there too? Have you made up your mind yet?_

Insistent.

Crowley did _not_ want any of that.

_Leave the poor man alone, you idiot._

The best course of action for the moment was getting back to sleep. So he did.

\----------------------

**J. PACHELBEL. [Canon](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8Af372EQLck) and Gigue in D major.**

Aziraphale hadn’t felt so at peace with himself for quite some time. Walking the streets of London, he felt reinvigorated, full of energy and, he dared say, of hope. The metropolis had a buzz of its own which he hadn’t really paid much attention to for years.

Indeed, a considerable difference from some months before, when that hum had sounded like jarring chaos to his ears.

_Look at you. Walking, actually _strolling_ home for dinner after work. Who would have thought?_

It had been a long day, like all his days always were. However, sitting in a studio, having the impression of being alone as he recorded some pieces for his next CD (or were they recording it digitally? Aziraphale could never keep up with the times), had actually sparked something in him. He felt that he’d never played better than that day in years.

Around the corner, by the side of the road that led to Aziraphale’s house, there was an elderly man dressed in ragged clothes. He had an Eastern European flair, a sweet and devilishly smart gleam in his eyes. It looked like a person who had seen it all in their long life and still found the courage to laugh at death in its face.

Aziraphale slowed down until he stopped in front of him.

The man was playing something on a violin, a tune that sounded vividly like Pachelbel's Canon in D major. Noticing that he had some kind of audience, he smirked and let some notes slip on the neck of his instrument.

Aziraphale smiled. Only some months before, he would have defined that poor man's playing style as a kind of butchery. _Poor Pachelbel_, he would have thought, _what a lacking and faulty rendition. Where is the technique?_

That evening, he smiled. The man was playing with love. It was far from perfect, but it was already enough.

And who could ever tell who that mischievous old man had been in his youth? For all Aziraphale knew, he could very well have been the leader of the Bolshoi orchestra, or the one of the Met, or of La Scala. His knotty fingers were slim and long enough to dance swiftly on the neck of his violin, with some brilliance of the old notes emerging now and then in the melody.

Aziraphale didn’t think about it twice when he left fifty pounds in the man's dirty violin case. Something inside of him whispered that, as crazy as it may have looked like to a stranger, it was the right thing to do.

The old violinist smirked wider, bowed to him without stopping playing and without breaking eye contact; then, with an unusually agile half-pirouette, he doubled his efforts, playing with even more feeling.

Aziraphale watched the old devil play passionately, as if they both were at a wedding or on a cruise ship, with hundreds of people there only for him. All of a sudden, Aziraphale realised that the violinist was playing as best as he could only for him, a complete stranger. He felt so overwhelmed that he had to wipe a tear away from his smiling cheek.

The old man softened his smile as he led the music to an end. People passed next to him, unaware of the silent communication happening between them.

The man took a rather theatrical bow, but didn’t say anything. Apparently, he couldn’t speak. Perhaps he simply didn’t know a word of English.

Aziraphale held out a hand and squeezed his shoulder, receiving a knowing nod in return. The eyes of the man glistened, dark and deep and wise.

Then he started to put his violin in his suitcase, preparing to leave for another part of the town. Aziraphale watched him go.

Who knew whether they would meet again. Aziraphale warmly hoped so. He had received so much from that man in just a handful of minutes, and not a word had been said.

He came home with the biggest smile on his face, light on his feet, and humming Pachelbel’s Canon.

Madame Tracy was still there; she was taking a delicious-looking salt-crusted fish out of the oven for dinner. “Hullo, dear,” she cooed as soon as she heard him come in. As she put the fish on the table, she gave him a good look.

“My, my, Albert Zachary Fell,” she chirped, batting her fake eyelashes repeatedly, “you are absolutely, definitely, positively in a good mood tonight, aren’t you?”

“Indeed I am, Madame,” he said, kissing her cheek. “Thanks for all the trouble. Have I ever told you I’d be lost without you?” Aziraphale was starving. He always looked forward to a good dinner, but his good mood and the recent events had fuelled his appetite even more.

“Y-yes… yes, many times,” she said, rubbing in bewilderment the point where she’d been kissed. She studied him for some seconds. “Bertie. Can I… can I tell you something?”

“By all means, fire away,” Aziraphale said, feeling a little ridiculous for his own extremely unusual good mood, but determined to live it up.

"Bertie, dear. Lately I’ve… I've noticed something new in the way you play. It's… Well. It's always been beautiful, sure. But during the last months… I don't know. It's become something more. Something I can't quite catch. I dare say it’s almost breathtaking."

"Ah, yes. I happened to notice it, too. It’s… well, perhaps it's ineffable." Aziraphale shrugged and smiled, sitting down at the table. He didn’t know where that word had come from, but it felt just perfect.

"Mmh-mmh," Madame Tracy confirmed with a pensive chirp of hers. “Don’t know if that’s the word I was looking for but, yes, it sounds perfect.”

Aziraphale paused. Then he said, “I know I’m asking too late, perhaps, but – Madame, would you have dinner with me tonight? I feel like having company. It would be such a waste to spend this evening alone.”

Tracy looked taken aback. Aziraphale had invited her to dinner. An extraordinary event. Her face lit up quickly in an enthusiastic smile, mirroring Aziraphale’s, as if she had been waiting exactly for that moment for the whole time.

“Of course, Bertie dear. Let me just make a phone call home – my lot can order some darned takeaway pizza for once, I say – and I’ll be sitting at that table with you before you have the time to say ‘Prokofyev’.”

\----------------------------

**C. SAINT-SAËNS. _Le __Carnaval_ _des Animaux_. VII. [Aquarium](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XCBDlC0N8Rc).**

Crowley willed himself to stop biting his nails, which, by the way, he had freshly painted. He absolutely didn’t feel like taking the risk of smudging his teeth with black stains on top of all his other worries, thank you very much.

It was October, and he still hadn’t heard anything about Albert taking part to the festival or not. He just needed to know, or anxiety’s twice-removed cousin would have killed him slowly in his own house.

When he heard a click at the other end of the line, he stood up from the sofa instinctively and started pacing his the living room.

“Hello?”

“Hi… uh, hi Albert.”

“Anthony! It’s you! How nice to hear from you, dear.”

“Yeah… Yeah, same here.”

“How did you know I was in town? I was going to call you in the afternoon, actually.”

“Call it, uh, destiny, if you like,” Crowley said in a hurry, immediately feeling like the most gigantic idiot on Earth.

Albert laughed, excited and happy.

God, the sound of that laugh. Crowley wished he could record it to play it every night before going to sleep, again and again. Was that a weird thing? Yup. Yup, definitely weird. Did he care at the moment? To be perfectly honest, he couldn’t give a fuck.

“So, why did you call?” Albert asked. “I-I mean,” he added quickly, “I’m absolutely happy that you- you just called. I- There doesn’t have to- to be a reason, or… Oh, is it because the song you wanted us to play together? I-I’m afraid I haven’t looked at it properly yet, just studied it theoretically, and-”

“No, no, wait… Uhm, y’see,” Crowley cut him off before losing the courage to speak altogether and just settling on listening to Albert being flustered for the rest of the call, “De Angelis has convinced me and the Them to… sign up for this, uh, festival… some kind of- of talent showcase to mix music genres. Like- like rock, and classical, and country… and… pop…?” He had to force himself to stop blabbering on. Of course Albert knew what music genres were. He also knew about the festival already, he reminded himself. They had the same agent, for fuck’s sake.

_Come on, Crowley, you old piece of trash. Come on._

“R-really?” Albert asked, with a sudden and unexpected twist in his voice. Higher by a diesis.

_You can do this. You _both_ can do this. Baby steps…_

“Gonna take place around Christmas time, I guess. Sounds, uh. Pretty cool, actually? It’s called ‘The Marvellous Music Mix Festival’ or something.” He watched his black fingernails very carefully, silently cursing that damned event for having such a fucking ridiculous name.

_It’s only the perfect chance for us to actually work on something together, though. Even better than that bloody arrangement I gave him. No big deal. Absolutely-_

“Oh, my goodness. Me too!”

Crowley’s phone slipped dangerously towards the floor. He had to thank someone for his quick reflexes, because he managed to catch it as it was already starting its fall of doom towards the floor. “What?”

“I’m going to be there too! As a – well. A kind of a ‘special guest’.”

Crowley felt like hugging his phone to his chest, but he settled on covering his eyes with one hand instead and slumping down on the sofa again – just to keep himself together a little longer. “That’s… that’s amazing,” he said, an octave and a half too high.

“Oh, but I won’t be exactly a special guest. You see, I’ll just accompany a viola in a duet.”

Anthony wasn’t paying particular attention anymore. He was too busy trying not to hyperventilate, and what or with whom Albert would be playing wasn’t relevant at the moment.

He would be playing at an event. An event which Albert had also signed up for. They were going to see each other every day, probably. With any luck, sleep in the same hotel, and-

“We could discuss it over dinner, perhaps,” Albert said on the phone, sounding as if he were already planning ahead just as much as Crowley was – something to be Absolutely Obsessed Over. Later, though. “Tomorrow, my place?”

Crowley’s liver switched places with his spleen, and the swap resulted in an uncontrollable smile on his face. “Absolutely.”

The following evening, sitting at Aziraphale’s dinner table, Crowley admitted that having dinner at Albert’s was a small event in itself. None of the usual fancy restaurants, no nice _bistrots_ or clubs. But the food was undeniably spectacular all the same.

Tracy, Crowley thought, was one of the best housekeepers and cooks Aziraphale could have had. He only wished she’d stayed to compliment her in person.

She had made _pasta al forno_ with a lot of delicious melted mozzarella, a healthy salad on the side and an excellent bottle of Merlot.

(“I bought it when I played in Sicily, at Agrigento. I had it stored for a special occasion such as this,” Albert told him, all wiggles and happy memories. “The Valley of the Temples was incredible, dear. You should have seen it.”

Crowley wondered how many years ago that had been. Albert had travelled far and wide before limiting his tours to the UK only. But he was glad that they could at least talk about his work, now, without Albert fidgeting too much or being defensive.

Still, the fact that Albert had to give up touring was a little painful. Maybe Crowley could do something about it… The matter needed further investigation. Not tonight, though. Tonight was for planning.)

Finally, of course, there was dessert – a chocolate mousse with maraschino cherries.

Crowley supposed that Albert had been paying his housekeeper a generous amount, if she bustled in the kitchen so frequently. The result was absolutely worth it. Outstanding. And it should have been nothing less, given Albert’s love for good food and delicacies.

Watching Albert eat had become one of Crowley’s favourite pastimes, almost a sacred rituals. That evening, though, he was particularly hungry and he gulped everything down with voracity.

Aziraphale was more methodical. He took his time, savouring everything with the utmost care and slowness, but he didn’t shy away from chatting all the while.

The upcoming festival quickly became the main topic.

“Do you think I should listening to some… what’s it called… rock ‘n’ roll?” Albert asked, genuinely worrying a little, twirling the dessert spoon in his mousse.

“Not exactly ‘rock ‘n’ roll’, angel,” Crowley said with a soft smile.

He really couldn’t help himself. Couldn’t just stick with ‘Albert’ – not all the time, anyway. Albert was an _angel_, so he had to call him ‘angel’. Luckily, he didn’t seem to be bothered by that.

Crowley took a sip of wine and smiled mischievously. “No need for you to go that back in time with music.”

Albert laughed, picking the last cherry with his hand and taking it to his mouth, a movement that Crowley tried desperately to ignore by eating the last spoonful of his own mousse.

“Are you sure?” Albert chewed. “Well. Might give it a try anyway. Though I’m not sure that would be very useful to me. I’m going to be working only with Michael. Ah, how silly of me – we went to school together, and it’s a small world after all… I think you, too, remember Michael St. George?”

Crowley’s mind stopped working, covered by a thick grey fog.

That name.

Crowley’s spoon fell on the plate with a loud cling, but Albert didn’t seem to notice as he rambled on.

“She’s become a very skilled cellist. I’m not surprised, honestly. She’s always been very ambitious, hasn’t she? I guess working together will be interesting, though. It will be a first time for me. I’ve never accompanied a viola in concert, and Michael-…”

_Michael. Michael St. fucking George._

Crowley couldn’t handle the thought anymore.

“_Michael_ is coming, too?” He realised his tone was edgy, but there was nothing he could do about it.

Aziraphale had been about to eat the last morsel of his dessert, but he stopped. “Yes, my dear. Is… Is something wro-”

“Did you know about it?”

“Of course I knew, Anthony, I’ve just told you. I’m supposed to play with her.”

“Then why didn’t you tell me before? As soon as you knew?”

Albert frowned. “What would have mattered if you’d known before tonight? Mine was a professional choice. She’s just a common schoolmate.”

“She’s not just that to me.” Crowley exhaled. His breath was starting to shake, and it made him ashamed. _Get a fucking grip_, a distant voice told him in his head; but it was too late, and the voice was too far away.

Albert tried to reach for him from across the table. “Anthony – if you could… if you could just explain without being overdramatic-”

“I am _not _being overdramatic!”

Crowley almost shouted, and Aziraphale closed his mouth, backing away.

A heavy silence followed.

Eventually, Crowley stood up and staggered to the living room, sitting down on the sofa.

He couldn’t see Albert, nor did he want to, but he heard him anyway as he moved to follow him and stopped on the threshold.

Crowley took his head in his hands, staring at the floor behind those dark lenses. “She… did things.” He gulped. “At school. I…”

He trailed off.

“Anthony,” came Albert’s voice, much softer now. “Please… I will never pressure you to tell me anything, _ever_. It took us a whole year to be where we are today.”

Crowley felt his hands shiver. It was strange and uncanny, hearing that concept out loud.

“I…” Albert sighed. He moved closer. “I would like to understand, though. I’d like to help you.”

Crowley was breathing slow and hard. He felt his sunglasses sliding down the slope of his nose and he hastened to push them back up.

It was all becoming too much. The prospect of meeting Michael again after what had happened… Too much, too much – the memory came back to him after years of trying to erase it. He couldn’t keep it inside of him for longer still.

Albert had joined him on the sofa. He was moving very slowly. Anthony felt his presence there like ever before, even stronger than when Albert had hugged him. He kept staring at the floor.

Albert took Crowley’s hands in his, taking them away from his face. The world, its motion through space, time itself – everything stopped. “Anthony… Anthony, please. We promised… We promised to be honest to one another, remember?” He waited a bit before adding, “You are my friend, and… and I am yours, right?”

Crowley didn’t answer immediately. He just grimaced, like those words were made of needles.

“I’ve learnt to know you,” Albert went on. “It took me a long time, but it’s been the best thing that could have happened to me.” He squeezed Crowley’s hands, passing his thumbs on the knuckles with deliberate slowness. “Now I want to help you. If you want it. But to do that, I need to know what happened.”

Crowley looked at him and met his eyes through the dark lenses. Two seconds passed. Three. Ten.

He sighed. “Alright.”

\----------------------------

**A. VIVALDI. _Le Quattro Stagioni_. _[Estate](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1GRuRHtQLvI)_** **. Movimento III. Presto.**

In his thirties and beyond, Crowley would remember those days and draw a conclusion: there are both Heaven and Hell in everyone's teenage years – the dream tainted by the nightmare and vice versa. Some people get to fly high in skies of gold; some get to crawl on their bellies and eat dust.

It was a sunny day. During a 10-minute break between lessons, Crowley and Lilith were walking to the vending machines to grab a snack, like they always did. Lilith had to make a quick stop at the toilets and they’d agreed to meet up in some minutes.

Crowley turned the corner, heading towards the vending machines, and he froze for a couple of seconds.

The hall was full of students, like during any break, and Crowley’s trained eyes had already subconsciously registered the usual lack of blonde curls and smiling eyes among them.

However, this time there was an unnatural long empty space in the crowd, as if the people had arranged themselves in an impromptu hallway. They were also strangely quieter than usual: no loud shouts, no laughs, just some hushed words in small clusters of four to five people at each side of the empty space. They all seemed to be waiting for something.

His instinct told him to stay where he was and wait for Lilith, but he _was _hungry and he dismissed that omen with a shrug. He paced on.

Still, he felt uncomfortable. He felt like… no, he was _sure_ he was being watched. But then again, that wasn’t new. People always tried to get a glimpse of his eyes, only to pretend they weren’t paying attention to them at all. There were always whispers, backs turned to him and worried looks.

In retrospect, he should’ve expected something; but Crowley was an optimist. He always tried to see the silver lining in everything, tried not to think that some people could bear ill will.

It was only when he reached the middle of the hall that he spotted them – Michael St. George and her small, unapproachable, tyrannical group silently watching him from one side, turning their heads slowly like a flock of owls to follow each of his steps.

Crowley knew they weren’t exactly kind or friendly. He always tried to avoid them whenever possible, he’d never even spoken to them, and though they always kept staring at him when he walked around the school, apparently that strategy had been good enough for them to let him be.

Then he tripped. Well, he didn’t exactly trip. Someone stuck a foot out in front of him and _made him_ trip.

He’d been walking slowly. There was no reason to be on the lookout for a potential ambush. Nothing dangerous should have happened. Still, he fell, and he fell _hard_.

Crowley hit his knees on the floor, giving a very loud and pitiful yelp. He slumped to the side like a burlap doll. Lying on the parquet, he curled up, clutching his knees with his hands.

A beautiful, ladylike, young and low voice came down to his ears from a vague point that seemed close to the ceiling. “Oh, poor little angel. Did it hurt when you fell?” He knew that voice. He’d heard it before many times as he walked through the hallways in-between classes. Michael’s voice was not easy to forget. “Well… Perhaps this will teach you to be more careful when you walk, Snake-eyes.”

Still moaning in pain, Crowley only had time to let out a hiss of rage before he felt himself being flipped by a strong hand, his back now pressed against the floor. Two paw-like hands clasped his wrists with remarkable ease and pinned them down on the parquet.

“What the fuck?” was the only thing Crowley managed to spit out, before he cried again. He felt Sandalphon (Michael’s henchman, _of course_) climbing onto him and pressing one of his fucking _shins_ on his torso.

Crowley was suddenly very aware of what was about to happen if Sandalphon, as broad and robust as a wooden wardrobe, decided to give in to gravity. He was holding back the potential pressure of his leg by keeping Crowley’s hands pinned down. Should he start to press harder on his chest, though…

A thin thread of panic started circling Crowley’s neck. His forehead began to sweat.

All around them there was only silence and eyes filled with a morbid curiosity.

Crowley turned his head slightly to the side. Michael’s ankle boots were suddenly very close to his face. They were made of a warm, polished brown leather, with a threatening pair of sturdy low heels.

“I’ve never liked those eyes of yours,” she said. “I don’t like how everyone stops to look at them. They were already weird enough to have by themselves, don’t you think?” She paused. “Apparently it wasn’t enough for _you_. You really had to go all the way and make that little drag show. Do you know what that means for _us_? The kind of reputation you’re giving the school?”

Michael’s voice had always sounded too regal for her age. Her voice was exactly like that of an adult, smooth like dark velvet and captivating when she joked in hushed tones in the hallways with her gang; but that same voice could turn eerie and squeeze you in its fist without even raising its volume.

She was pinning him down as much as Sandalphon was physically restraining him.

Crowley shivered.

“Those… _things_… make you look like some sort of alien, or a freak.” She paused again. From what Crowley had seen, she’d always liked giving big dramatic speeches in that low voice of hers. He hadn’t realised how terrifying she could be. “Maybe that’s what you are. A freak. You will always be a freak. Remember it.”

The crowd of students around them had started to whisper, then to talk, until they were now hollering slurs and comments like hooligans in a stadium.

Michael was towering above him, unforgiving, her elaborate hairdo piled up elegantly on her head. Despite what was she was doing, she looked absolutely stunning, as if that was her hard-earned moment of glory.

Crowley didn’t know whether he was about to cry or not.

_I just want this to be over. Why this? Why me? What the fuck have I done? Is it my fault I was born like this?_

The weight of Sandalphon’s shin started pressing more and more on his chest, slowly, harder and harder, making every breath a struggle.

Crowley wanted to be angry, he wanted to shout and fight back. But the truth was that he was just scared. “You… can’t… do thisss-”

“Shut up, fucking fairy,” Sandalphon cut him off, a sadistic edge in his voice.

With his resistance gone, crushed by Sandalphon’s leg and Michael’s words, Crowley was left in a puddle of pleading fear. “Please… can’t… breathe…”

“Serves you right,” was Michael’s icy remark. “Do you have any idea of the shame you’ve brought onto this school with your little drag show? You made the local papers. The name of our school was on it. Now everyone’s talking about it. You gave us a reputation.” She lowered her voice even more. “You’re disgusting. You make me sick.”

“Leave him alone, you assholes!”

Crowley’s mind was starting to fade into a haze, but he recognized Lilith’s voice as she came to his rescue, yelling from the crowd. She launched herself at Sandalphon who all but pushed her away under Michael’s vigilant, unperturbed and glacial eyes.

“You stay out of this,” the bully said, turning to Lilith. She didn’t flinch and tried to tackle him, but Sandalphon pushed her even harder than the first time and she got rebutted into the crowd with a surprised cry.

The crowd surrounded her, presumably to check that she was ok. Crowley couldn’t see her anymore, but he was grateful to her anyway. For some seconds she had distracted Sandalphon, and it had been enough.

With his quick thinking heightened by the danger in which he was, Crowley immediately noticed a weak spot. By pushing Lilith away, Sandalphon’s hand wasn’t pinning his wrist down anymore.

Having Sandalphon’s weight still on his chest, he was left with very few options, all of them unworthy of any pride. Then again, Sandalphon, Michael and the crowd of fellow students were not behaving fairly with him. Those were desperate times and they called for desperate measures.

He waited the right moment, his breath still laboured, and when Sandalphon was just about to turn to him again, moving his arm to pin him back down, Crowley, quick as the lightning, stuck two fingers into his eyes, pulling them back instantly.

Sandalphon gave a bear-like cry, moving both of his hands on his injured eyes and squeezing over them. That was exactly what Crowley had hoped.

He summoned all of his willpower and his desperation from the depths of his body cells. With a shout, he managed to surge forward with his whole body, pushing Sandalphon off him and onto the floor.

The audience gasped – a living and breathing many-headed monster, a blur of people witnessing a gladiator fight in the Coliseum. Someone booed, others (very few) cheered without being too eager.

“What’s going on here?”

In a flash, the students scattered in every direction, back to their classes or wherever else they were supposed to be. Michael, Sandalphon and their group disappeared almost by magic, a surprising thing considering that Sandalphon was still rubbing his eyes while he ran away.

Crowley was left alone, half-reclining on the floor and catching his breath. Miss Hunt, the sturdy and serious middle-aged assistant headmaster, was walking briskly towards him. She stopped, looking at Crowley with the towering presence of an enraged bull: perfectly motionless and focussed before finally charging and skewering the matador to the wall.

“Stand up, Mr. Crowley. I’m afraid you’re in serious trouble now. What I have just witnessed is much worse than that little show you put on a couple of weeks ago.”

Crowley was still dizzy and out of breath, trying to refill his lungs properly and to ignore the slight pain in his ribs. He wondered how much longer it would have taken Sandalphon to crack some of them. Or worse.

He looked up at the woman in confusion. Probably not expecting any hesitation, Miss Hunt spoke again, making her voice crack like a whip in front of a lion at the circus. “You heard me. Get up and follow me. The headmaster will _not_ be happy.”

With some effort, Crowley stood up, still unsteady on his legs, and breathed slowly to try to get a hold of himself – as if _breathing_ alone could have been enough to wipe away everything that had just happened. He staggered to the nearest vending machine and pressed a hand against it to stay upright. Miss Hunt was already marching away, after having given him a very meaningful look that compelled Crowley to follow her. He did, without saying a word.

Crowley knew that trying to reason with the stubborn and impatient assistant headmaster would have been useless. However, if he was to have a discussion with the headmaster, there was a slim chance that he would listen to Crowley and take action. At least he could try.

The headmaster’s and Miss Hunt’s offices were on the top floor, surrounded by a section of the school archives and a sort of storage room for instruments.

After Miss Hunt had briefed the headmaster on the situation, Crowley was let in.

The headmaster’s office was big, spacious and permeated by unsettling, distorted rays of sunshine coming in from a row of tall windows; the blinding light made a stark contrast with the shade on the floor cast by the walls between them.

Behind a suspiciously big mahogany desk sat Mr. Metatron, the headmaster. He had a placid aura all around him; perhaps it was his moustache, or his grey hair, or the way he put his hands on his desk matter-of-factly and in plain sight.

But the students weren’t fooled. He was inflexible, his face never smiled and he never talked to the students much, unless things ‘became serious’.

Apparently, things had just become ‘serious’.

“Mr. Crowley,” the headmaster said, nodding to the chair in front of him and inviting Crowley to sit. Crowley did. He felt uneasy every time someone added ‘Mr.’ before his name; especially if that someone was a figure of authority, like that sinister headmaster.

“Mr. Metatron, sir.” Crowley shifted uncomfortably on his seat, his chest still aching a bit.

He couldn’t bring himself to look Mr. Metatron in the eyes.

“I have just been informed,” he said, as soon as Miss Hunt closed the door on her way out, “that you are still cause of ruckus among the students.”

Crowley froze. He lifted his gaze very slowly until he could finally meet the headmaster’s grey eyes. “Ruckus.”

“Precisely.” Mr. Metatron paused, then added, “And _scandal_.”

Crowley tried his best not to slump in his chair like an empty burlap sack. _Scandal_. Again?

Mr. Metatron kept looking at him in the eyes in a way that was starting to make him squirm. “We cannot and will not allow any more of this. The prestige of our school is too important to be tainted by your… ‘social experiments’, shall we call them like that?”

_‘Social experiments’_.

Crowley had entered that room with all the best intentions, but he was already feeling like throwing up.

He’d just been bullied, but the focus was still on what he’d done two weeks before.

He wondered why, of all people, a man such as Mr. Metatron was sitting there on that chair. Shouldn’t a school headmaster encourage students, be a model to them and provide reassurance? He couldn’t see any of that in Mr. Metatron’s words, nor could he read compassion or understanding in the rocks he had instead of his eyes.

“We gave you a first warning after that… unfortunate show you decided to put on with the help of Miss Nox. I’ll have you know there were some parents who threatened to withdraw their children from our school because of the turmoil you caused. Parents who, as it happens, are also very influential sponsors.”

Crowley felt his stomach boil cold when he heard Lilith’s name. He had never meant to drag her into this. More than that, he simply couldn’t believe that any of the things he was hearing were real. He’d just been bullied and almost injured by a group of students. Michael’s gang had it on him for the way he _was _and all the headmaster could think of was the sponsors.

“Mr. Metatron, I’m sorry, I don’t mean to interrupt, but…” Crowley’s breath was a little ragged. He still wasn’t feeling well.

“Well, you _are_ interrupting,” the headmaster replied bluntly.

“…_but_ I think I need to go to the sick bay for a quick check. You see, my chest…”

“You can go when we have finished our little talk.”

“I was almost crushed, sir! They-”

“Now don’t be dramatic, Mr. Crowley. I’ve also been involved in a couple of teenage brawls in my youth and let me tell you, almost every time both sides share the blame equally. Besides, given the recent events and your record, I’m sure there were reasons for your fellow students to be… agitated.”

“A-… agitated,” Crowley croaked.

“Unpleasant as it is, I suggest you try to shrug it off. Forget the whole episode.”

“I was _attacked_,” Crowley insisted, “because of my eyes, Mr. Metatron.”

“Well, then, I find this to be utterly ridiculous. I can’t believe that your friends could do something like that to you because of it. _If_ they did.”

_Your friends._ If _they did._

Crowley was left defenceless in front of… whatever that was. It felt like being crushed again.

Then his brain caught up with another thing that Mr. Metatron had said just some seconds before. “I… I have a _record_?”

The headmaster shuffled some papers on his desk and darted a quick glance at them. “Discontinuous class attendance… lack of respect towards the teaching staff…”

“I only ever asked them questions!”

“…_not to mention_, of course, that shameful… cross-dressing episode.” All throughout the list of Crowley’s supposed crimes, Mr. Metatron didn’t even arch an eyebrow. Crowley felt like he was being cut to smithereens with a meat grinder.

“Sir, I admit that my behaviour was- was a little provocative, but I swear I’ve never had any bad intention. I was just trying to raise attention on-… If only you listened to other students, you would find that there are some who would certainly feel more at ease with- with a laxer code of conduct-”

“I see. And who would these students be, if I may ask?”

Crowley was already about to provide a thorough list, but at the last moment he closed his mouth. Just in time.

Getting people into trouble was something he seemed to be pretty good at. He’d already done that to Lilith, apparently.

He would have never forgiven himself, if he had accidentally given away even a single one of the names of the students who had been struggling like him. He could see and recognise them every day in the hallways – wiser than him, because they knew how to keep a low profile. Wiser, but just as scared.

After many long, _very_ long seconds, Mr. Metatron seemed satisfied with Crowley’s silence. “Now, I can’t force you to do anything, Mr. Crowley,” he said, “but as a considerably older man than you, let me give you a piece of advice. Stop. Stop whatever it is you’re trying to do. This is a battle you cannot win. Not in this school.”

Crowley tried one last time to reason with the headmaster. “Sir, it’s really out of my depths – how can a school uniform be useful? Why aren’t we allowed more freedom and the comfort of our own clothes?”

“Mr. Crowley. When you grow up – and you surely have a long way to go still –, you will notice that the world doesn’t revolve around abstract concepts only. Freedom, self-expression – all of them are very… appealing, sure.”

Crowley braced himself for the upcoming ‘but’.

Mr. Metatron paused before speaking again. “Should we, as an institute, happen to displease some of our private sponsors, who have very specific views on… certain _topics_, we would have no more resources to keep this school open. In light of this, I cannot allow further episodes from your riotous temperament. Not to mention that you are here thanks to a merit scholarship. I don’t recall your mother ever contributing to our school. A family like that of Miss St. George, by contrast…”

It took Crowley a couple of false starts to finally ask, “Are you telling me that I’m- I’m… disposable?”

“I wouldn’t put it like this,” the headmaster said in his flat tone. “But one other incident like that, Mr. Crowley, and we’ll have to expel you for the sake of our school. Consider this your last warning.”

Crowley’s brain caught up with his broken breaths after several seconds.

He’d never felt so meaningless. So alone.

“…And _you_ should be the headmaster,” Crowley said in the end, completely defeated and hopeless.

Mr. Metatron looked at him carefully before speaking. “I am going to pretend not to have heard those last words you said, Mr. Crowley. You have already enough of those complaints from your teachers on your plate as is. I will not add another one.”

_Oh. How kind._

“Now I would strongly suggest you go back to class. As it happens, you should have been there already ten minutes ago.”

Crowley stood up slowly. “May I go to the sick bay at least, before going back to class?”

Mr. Metatron considered this for an infinite amount of time. “You may.” And with that, he gestured for Crowley to go.

Feeling nauseous, Crowley staggered out of that eldritch office.

Michael and those other bastards tried to come at him again. But this time, he was prepared. He tried to fight back much quicker, landed a couple of good punches in Sandalphon’s face and got one in his stomach before Miss Hunt showed up again.

That time, as promised, he received no mercy, and he was kicked out for good.

\----------------------------

**O. RESPIGHI. _Pini di Roma_ \- IV. _[I Pini della Via Appia](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8dr-br_oeaw)._**

“Anthony…” Albert whispered.

Crowley did not look at him. He was slumped on the sofa, staring at the cream-coloured ceiling, at that chandelier in the middle.

He’d made it through that memory, somehow. Now it all felt like being alone on Mars, on a spaceship, without knowing whether the motor is powerful enough to take you home, back to Earth.

“Anthony, I… I never realised any of this. I never knew.”

“Not your fault, angel.” He sighed. “You _couldn’t_ know. Never saw you around during breaks at school. Or with other students.”

“I was practicing,” Albert admitted with a wince. “Constantly. And I have never been exactly sociable. I knew about the incident, but only by… you know…”

“The local newspapers,” Crowley croaked, still staring at that fucking chandelier. It glistened softly. Crowley imagined it falling down onto him with a snap, a crash and an electric buzz.

“Yes.” A beat. “Even then, it looked like everyone was always keeping me in the dark about everything. I guess they didn’t want to…” Another beat. “…to _distract_ me from the piano.” He sounded surprised.

“It was for the best. It got you this far.” Crowley realised the bitter taste of those words as soon as they came out of his mouth.

“But _you_ got expelled,” Albert protested. “It’s not fair. In fact, it was absolutely, utterly, completely unfair.”

“Angel, ‘s not your fault,” Crowley repeated, feeling more tired of himself by the second.

“I mean…” Albert hesitated. Crowley could hear his breath become more and more ragged. “However your… however your eyes look like, it was not-”

“Oh, oh holy _fuck_,” was the only comment that Crowley could wheeze out.

Albert fell silent.

Crowley was desperate. The tension was unbearable, and something had snapped in him.

He was tired. He could stop right then and ask Albert to go on talking about it in the future; but if he did, he feared the right moment would never come again.

“Angel,” he whispered.

Albert stayed quiet, looking at him. A long silence stretched between them, as tense as a harp string.

Crowley turned his head slowly towards him, and saw an unfathomable expression in his eyes that ranged from excitement to worry to borderline anxiety.

“Angel,” he repeated, “I want you to see my eyes.”

Albert didn’t speak. He went very pale. He looked scared.

“Please,” Crowley said, without knowing why the fuck it felt so difficult to raise a hand and take his sunglasses off himself.

Albert twisted his hands. “Are you sure? I-… I would never…”

“Please, just… _do it_,” Crowley said, his voice on the verge of breaking. “I want you to see them. I want you to understand. Take my sunglasses off.”

Time stretched. A pair of gentle hands slowly approaching became the focus of Crowley’s vision. He stayed very still. Albert’s soft, careful fingers took the stems of the sunglasses. They lifted them and bared his face.

Crowley had closed his eyes in a last attempt to find some courage.

_Do it. It’s time, you fucking coward. (God, what am I doing.) Do it. _Do_ it._

He opened his eyes.

Albert’s lips parted in surprise and he looked carefully into his eyes. Crowley fought the instinct to cover them and protect them again. He let Albert study them instead – the right one, a thin golden ring around a wide black pupil, and the left one, its opposite, a gold disc specked by a small black dot in the middle.

Eyes in the eyes, blue mirrors reflecting his black and gold ones.

"Anisocoria." Crowley’s voice was shaking.

_That bitch._

“Oh, Anthony,” Albert murmured, without looking away. “Oh, my dear…”

“Permanent difference in the size of my pupils,” Crowley went on, because of course he had his little speech ready, a heritage of years and years of explaining it. “It’s genetic. Some kind of… of… mutation, I think.”

Holding Albert’s gaze was bloody difficult. Crowley had never felt so exposed, so tired and hopeful in a long time. He was condensing years and years of hopes of acceptance into a single look.

_Won’t you run away, now that you know that I am not perfect?_

"Are they always like this?" Albert asked, in a tone that Crowley thought, _hoped_ was soft and tentative.

Crowley pursed his lips. He nodded.

_Won’t you run away, now that you know that I can’t be fixed?_

Albert’s soft whisper was now the only sound that managed to cover the buzz in his ears. “Oh, Anthony. Please, I… I can’t stop looking at them. I’m afraid I’m going to ask you to wear your sunglasses less often when we meet. That is, if you’re amenable.” He smiled.

“I…” Crowley trailed off, without really knowing what to say.

For the first time, he too could see Albert’s eyes up close. Not on TV. Not in photographs or posters or YouTube blurry clips. Not shielded by dark lenses. They were real. _He_ was real and he was _there_.

The fuzzy concept went straight to his head, making him dizzy even though he was sitting.

“Please, Anthony. They’re… gorgeous.”

Crowley’s hands flew in his own hair, gripping it tight. “I'm… T-they're not _gorgeous_. How can you say- You can’t mean-… Angel, they… they're different.”

“Yes”, Albert said. “Exactly. That’s why they’re beautiful.”

_Oh, no. Oh, crap._

The string snapped.

Times of being called weirdo and snake and freak because of his eyes, years of keeping the light out by hiding them behind a pair of dark lenses, years of telling with his body and his clothes what he couldn't convey through his eyes anymore – they all crumbled down like a sandcastle on a beach, taking Crowley with them.

When you’ve limped in the woods for too long and you’ve been lying half-alive, half-dead on the ground, the bear trap still gnawing at you foot, it only takes another person to loosen those steel teeth from your ankle. The cuts bleed and bleed, but soft hands come to wrap warm bandages carefully around the wound. It hurts a little less. You’re starting your recovery. You can start walking again, with the other person as your crutch.

Crowley started to cry. Softly, at first. Then it all became an incoherent, wobbling sob. He closed his eyes and took his own face in his hands. He breathed sharply and a pair of welcoming arms encircled him. A cheek came to rest on his shoulder.

Cradled in Albert’s arms, Crowley cried and couldn’t seem to stop – he cried, mourning his self-imposed loss of freedom when he’d decided to cover his eyes all those years before – and he cried with relief now that he’d started gaining that freedom back.

Without realising it, he snuggled closer. Albert didn't seem to be bothered; he only started rubbing a hand along Crowley’s back, up and down, soothing and comforting.

Perhaps this was Crowley’s turning point, what he’d been waiting for. It felt weird and new and a little scary; he’d spent a third of his life behind those sunglasses, after all. It wouldn’t be easy to change back, but Crowley was hell-bent on trying and going on.

Perhaps it was really time for a change.

\----------------------------

Aziraphale tried to fight back the tears. That was _not_ the time for him to cry. Something more important had happened. Something he’d been waiting for a very long time.

The moment had finally come, but it hadn’t been as exciting and freeing as he’d imagined, like a dive in the sea. It had been full of thorns and tears, falling onto him like a sack of bricks.

With careful fingers, he had removed the sunglasses from Anthony’s eyes. He’d gasped.

They were hazel-amber, just like Anthony had said that evening by the Thames. They were big, incredibly alert and smart and expressive, now shining with tears.

And those pupils… two different rings. They were mesmerising. With a single look, they had chained Aziraphale to them for what looked like eternity.

Aziraphale had never seen something so beautiful as those eyes in his life.

_How could anyone say such cruelties of these things of beauty?_

The magnitude of Anthony’s story swept him away like a tornado. A pointless sense of guilt for not having known about Crowley’s struggle had threatened to crush him. Watching Crowley’s face as he relived what he had been carrying inside of him for years had felt like walking on shattered glass with him.

_How long have you been suffering like this? How long since you felt accepted?_

Aziraphale thought back to Granny Dot and to what she’d told him before passing away. He thought of the way Anthony had started to call him ‘angel’ all those months before and had never stopped, not even when he’d been given the chance to use Aziraphale’s first name.

And those eyes…

Aziraphale didn’t know how he was still breathing. He’d been waiting to know what exactly Anthony’s eyes were like, but never would have he imagined something so spectacular. Sidereal gems from outer space, fallen on Earth and collected by the lovely man in front of him.

They had been sitting on the sofa for who knew how long. Outside, London lived on, endlessly bright even at night, unaware of the two of them.

Anthony looked so fragile – lost and tired and empty. He looked desperate for something that Aziraphale hoped was care and understanding. So he tried to give them to him.

“Angel…”

“Hush, dear. I’m here. I’m here.”

“Angel, I-… I’m sorry to have unloaded all this crap on you. I… I shouldn’t have…”

“It was not ‘unloading’. It was sharing. You shared your story with me.”

“It was unfair of me to do that anyway. I… I’ve not been nice to you…”

Aziraphale felt his heart being squeezed by an invisible hand at the confusion and the worry he heard in those words. “You’re the nicest person I’ve ever met, Anthony.”

_I don’t deserve to be your friend._

“Shut it, I’m not…” Anthony gulped. “…not _nice_.”

“You are.”

“Albert, angel, I’m not… I’m a freak. You’ve _seen them_ now. On my face. I’m disgusting- I’m…”

That word made shivers run down Aziraphale’s spine. “No, no, please. Please, my dear boy, just… stop repeating those cruel lies that they told you.”

“Am I not?”

“No. No, you’re not. Anthony… Anthony, please, look at me.” Aziraphale pulled back and cupped his face in his hands.

Slowly, ever so slowly, Anthony opened his eyes again. Two binary stars got into orbit with two blue supergiants.

“Anthony.” With his thumbs, Aziraphale wiped away the last tears that were still flowing down Anthony’s eyes. “Dear, you don’t know how much I’ve been waiting for this moment. I’ve waited a year, but I could have waited six thousand years. It wouldn’t have mattered. You have given me the most miraculous gift. You told me your story, showed me your soul. I… I don’t think I could ever thank you enough for that, my friend.”

Anthony emitted a soft wail, as if he were in pain. As if it all had been too much. He gripped Aziraphale’s woollen sweater a little tighter and started to cry again, though in silence this time.

_My friend._

Those last two words had been a little painful. He wanted to pour all his care into Anthony, nourish him, make him feel loved in every way. Wasn’t it something that friends did?

But he also wanted a lot of things he’d never had the privilege to experience yet. He was starting to feel something growing in him, a flowered vine coiling around his heart, slow and sweet and achy, an insufferable tenderness that sprouted every time he laid his eyes on Anthony. He wanted to tell him that everything would be alright, to comfort him, to make him smile and laugh, to…

To kiss him.

Would it be fine? Or too forward? Aziraphale didn’t know where that idea had come from. It was new, and inappropriate, and a little intimidating. He didn’t even know how it felt to kiss someone. But he wanted to kiss Anthony so much – to pepper his face and his nose and his mouth and his eyes until he’d be giddy with it. He just knew it.

Aziraphale had always feared change. He felt safer in his routine, in the mild reassurance that every day could be, if not identical, very similar to the next. Kissing Anthony felt like an enormous change, a huge step in the dark from which they’d have no means of coming back.

One way or another, though, he couldn’t do it. Anthony was his friend. He couldn’t betray his trust doing something so reckless. It had taken them so long to be where they were. He couldn’t risk blowing everything up with things like kissing. And most importantly, now Anthony was distressed.

_Look at you. Being selfish. This man has opened his soul to you. He has lowered all his barriers for you, showed you his eyes. And instead of enjoying and cherishing his gift, you’re already asking for more. Aren’t you a pathetic, greedy little bastard?_

He exhaled slowly, petting Anthony’s hair, glad that seemed to feel better. Calmer, at least. He heard his shaky breath even out, slowly but steadily.

Aziraphale decided that Anthony would stay the night. To Hell with everything else. Tomorrow would be strange and full of questions, but there was no use worrying about the future. The air felt clearer then.

Later, that night, Aziraphale took Anthony by the hand and led him to his bed, tucking him in. Only when he heard Anthony’s slow and steady breathing did he go lie down on the sofa in the living room.

He felt sleep luring him sweetly to the land of dreams. A voice in his head kept singing a song that was almost identical to the one he’d heard many months before, getting out of a taxi.

_And we _will_ build our dreams on suspicious minds._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs mentioned in this chapter, beside the classical music linked at the beginning of specific scenes, were:  
\- Elvis Presley's [Suspicious Minds](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RxOBOhRECoo);  
\- Queen's [A Kind of Magic](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0p_1QSUsbsM) and [Breakthru](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CEjU9KVABao).
> 
> There's also a brief mention of Liszt's [Hungarian Rhapsody n.2](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FT36za3Gyos), because it's one of my favourite pieces and I don't know if it's going to get a scene, but I wanted to include it anyway.
> 
> Thank you for having waited and for reading! We are more than halfway through this story and I hope to be able to update it more quickly next time. Rest assured, though, that I am not going to abandon it.  
I hope you enjoyed. See you next chapter! :)
> 
> Usual disclaimers:
> 
> This work is based on my own Musicians AU headcanon list which I posted on Tumblr back in September 2019. You can find info looking for the tags #Ineffable Musicians or #Ineffable Musicians AU (if Tumblr hasn't eaten those posts yet...).
> 
> I've written and proofread this work by myself and I'm not an English native speaker, so if you notice any mistakes and monsters roaming among the words, please warn me and I'll be happy to fix them!
> 
> My tags are a mess, so if you notice some warning that should be there and is not, please do tell me.
> 
> Come say hello on Tumblr, the nickname is always [saretton](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/saretton). :)


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